


I'm the ghost of my mistakes

by GreyHaven



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: (another OC) - Freeform, (but only a minor injury), (it's an OC), Alternate Universe - Post-Canon, American Assassin AU, Angst, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, Angst with a Happy Ending, Assassin AU, BAMF!Stiles, Canon-Typical Violence, Fluffy Ending, Getting Together, Gun Violence, Guns, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Torture, Knives, M/M, Major Character Injury, Minor Character Death, Post-Canon, Rescue, Rescue Missions, Shooting Guns, Torture, imprisoned!Derek, wow these tags make it sound dark
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-21
Updated: 2021-02-17
Packaged: 2021-03-18 02:40:28
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 20
Words: 29,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28735866
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GreyHaven/pseuds/GreyHaven
Summary: Stiles hasn't been known as Stiles for the past six years.  He's Mitch Rapp, a CIA assassin with 117 kills under his belt.  When he gets a late night call from Scott, saying Derek has been taken, he's on the road back to Beacon Hills in less than ten minutes.  He's going to get Derek back, even if that means adding a few more kills to his ledger.An American Assassin/Teen Wolf fusion. Rated E for violence which is canon typical for AA but might be considered extreme for TW. If you're familiar with the plot of AA, please be assured that no female or beloved TW characters have been fridged in the making of this fic and pairing.*Updates on Wednesdays and Saturdays, hit that subscribe button so you don't miss out!*Translation into Portuguese availablethanks to ImNotWhatIUsedToBe.
Relationships: Derek Hale/Stiles Stilinski
Comments: 278
Kudos: 788





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GrossBiscuit](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GrossBiscuit/gifts).
  * Translation into Português brasileiro available: [I'm the ghost of my mistakes - Tradução](https://archiveofourown.org/works/29380155) by [ImNotWhatIUsedToBe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImNotWhatIUsedToBe/pseuds/ImNotWhatIUsedToBe)



> Hello!
> 
> This fic was inspired by [this ficlet](https://gross-biscuit.tumblr.com/post/159737571994/what-the-fuck-how-are-these-the-same-people) by GrossBiscuit and the original is incorporated here with her kind permission.
> 
> It's set approximately 8 years post canon, it's finished and edited, and I'm posting a chapter or two each time because I'm an attention seeking brat XD
> 
> Enjoy!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> An edit I made to use as a front cover

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I couldn't sleep so I made a thing at 3am and decided to post it here. Apologies if you've subscribed and have had more than one notification for this chapter, it's the first time I've ever posted a pic on here and I may have got slightly confused. I like words, not technology XD


	2. Chapter 2

A month.

He’s been away for a month on what turned out to be the job from hell. Hurley and Irene (mostly Irene) had insisted on a week long debrief that Stiles could absolutely have done without but he’d been given no choice in the matter so he’d tolerated it with gritted teeth and kept his snarky responses to the bare minimum.

Now he has some downtime so he’s headed back up to his little cabin, a few miles east of Bozeman, Montana.

Darkness has closed in by the time he gets there which, Stiles thinks, is fucking typical. First his military transport had been delayed, meaning he didn’t arrive at Malstrom until late afternoon. Then he hit all the rush hour traffic. As if that wasn’t enough, then a wreck closed the 287 which forced him onto the back roads. In the end, the journey that should have taken him two and a half hours took him almost five hours instead.

In short, it’s late and he’s generally pissed at life.

He stops in the small, muddy yard and pulls on the parking brake of the non-descript black car that doesn’t belong to him. Technically, anyway. It’s government issue but it’s been issued to him so it’s as close as he gets to having his own vehicle since Roscoe finally went to the great scrapyard in the sky. He isn’t sure what make it is and doesn’t care enough to check. It starts when he wants it to, stops when he wants it to, responds when he turns the steering wheel, and it’s about as inconspicuous as a car can possibly be. It’s enough.

And that’s all he needs.

He steps out of the car and motion sensor lights flare into action, flooding the area around the cabin with bright white light. They’re only one small part of the security measures he’s taken. Perhaps the most annoying one given that the local wildlife wander past and set them off with irritating frequency, but Stiles figures that’s better than being surprised by a threat.

A threat that might come from his line of work, or from his now distant association with werewolf packs and supernatural creatures.

It doesn’t pay to be too careful.

Which is why he chose the cabin.

It’s easily defensible. His nearest neighbours are a mile away. The cabin is half a mile from the nearest tarmacked road, buried deep in the forest, on the side of a mountain. No one can get near this place without him knowing about it, and if by some chance they do, the lights provide Stiles with a clear shot at whoever dares to approach.

A quick but thorough glance around the pool of artificial light reveals that nothing is out of place. No tyre tracks in the mud. No footprints. Good. He stretches out the kinks from his long journey, yawns, then grabs his bag and weapons cases from the trunk.

He pauses outside, checking the piece of foil that he left at the bottom of the door, wedged between the door itself and the frame. It’s still in place. The door hasn’t been opened while he’s been away. He undoes the locks, goes inside and switches off the security system when it beeps at him.

The cabin is cold and dark and unwelcoming but it’s _home._

Stiles flicks the lights on and does another of his quick-but-thorough glances. Nothing is out of place.

Good.

He’s safe.

As safe as he ever gets, anyway.

He double locks the door from the inside, removes his sidearm and holster and starts to unpack. 

Weapons cases and work laptop into the securely locked closet that could more accurately be described as a small armoury. His go bag is there too. He always keeps one packed.

Glock on the small coffee table. It’s in the middle of the room where he can get to it easily if he needs it.

He throws his laundry into the hamper. Toiletries and meds go into the bathroom cabinet. 

He catches a glimpse of his reflection in the mirror. The bruises are healing and the cuts have scabbed over so he doesn’t look as bad as he did when he got back to HQ a week ago. That’s something. His ribs are still loudly protesting, though, so he strips off his clothes and takes a long, hot shower.

It helps.

A bit.

He dries off and gets dressed, then goes into the kitchen.

Cooking isn’t part of his skill set so he takes a TV dinner out of the freezer and tosses it in the microwave. It’s terrible but it’s food. There’s no point in keeping fresh ingredients here anyway, not when he might be called away at any moment. He’ll go to the grocery store tomorrow, pick up a few bits that he can turn into something vaguely edible. He won’t get called out for at least a couple of weeks, maybe even longer. 

He takes the last beer from the fridge and sips it, perching on the counter while he waits for the telltale _ding_ from the microwave, then sits on the squashy couch and eats his dinner straight out of the plastic tray. He doesn’t have a TV but he has his own laptop in addition to the one which is now secured in the closet, so he loads up Netflix and stares at something he doesn’t care about while he eats the crappy food and sips his not-so-crappy beer.

It’s pushing towards midnight when he finishes eating. His eyelids are drooping and he’s trying to convince himself to move the few feet across to the bed so he can actually sleep when his phone rings. _His_ phone. Not his work phone. _His_ phone. The one that never rings anymore. He doesn’t know why he keeps it, he hasn’t used it in forever, but he keeps it close and he keeps it charged. Just in case.

He picks it up and his mouth turns dry.

Should he answer?

There isn’t really a question there. He has to answer. This is precisely why he kept the phone. _Just in case._

He hits the button, raises the phone to his ear and says, “yeah?”

“Stiles,” a familiar voice murmurs into the phone. 

Stiles closes his eyes. He hasn’t heard that name in six years. He didn’t think he’d ever hear it again.

“I’m sorry, I know you’re out, but -” Scott goes on. There’s obvious reluctance holding his words in. He doesn’t want to be making this call just as much as Stiles doesn’t want to be receiving it.

Stiles waits. Scott wouldn’t bother him if it wasn’t life-or-death-only-Stiles-can-help important. Unless it was bad news. The worst news. He’s prepared for both, even after all the years and all the distance he put between himself and Beacon Hills.

“Stiles,” Scott continues, “it’s Derek. They’ve got him. He came back to help us and they took him. It’s - it’s bad.”

Stiles screws up his face against the swell of emotion. “Ok,” he says, somehow managing to sound completely normal and not a bit like his whole world is crashing down around him.

He ends the call without another word. Scott knows he’ll come. That’s why he called him.

The bone deep tiredness has faded into the background. Now he’s on high alert, running on adrenaline.

He doesn’t hesitate. He grabs his go bag and the weapons cases, and an extra case of ammo, and loads it all into the sleek, black car with long practiced and disciplined efficiency.

He’s going back.

But he isn’t staying.

And he has no intention of leaving without Derek. Not again.

He’s still human. But he’s no longer 147 pounds of pale skin and fragile bones.

And sarcasm is most definitely no longer his only defence.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A bonus chapter to get you into the story :D More coming on Saturday!

He stops at a gas station on the edge of town, fills up his tank and picks up some bottles of water and some dubious looking protein bars that only technically count as food but will be enough to keep him going for the journey so he won’t have to stop too often.

They know him here and even though it’s late, the clerk insists on chatting with him.

“Late night for ya, Mitch,” she says cheerily.

“Sure is, Becky. No rest for the wicked.”

“Where are you off to this time? How was your trip to the Arctic? Or was it the Antarctic? I can’t remember now.”

“Arctic. It was fine. Warmer climes this time, heading down to Ecuador to take some measurements.”

Becky smiles. “Sounds great. Bet you’ll be glad to escape the rain here.”

Stiles manages a smile in return. “Sure will.”

He makes his excuses, pays and leaves, making a mental note that Ecuador is his latest cover story. Most folks in town don’t know him but those that do, they know him as Mitch Rapp, in accordance with his government ID. Officially speaking, Stiles Stilinski no longer exists. Everything about him has been wiped. Now he’s just Mitch, a quiet, forgettable, climate change research scientist with a passion for hiking, running and martial arts, an occasional love for computer based nerdishness and way too many opinions on the comparative merits of Star Wars versus Star Trek.

He gets back in his car, stows the water and protein bars, and programs the GPS. Then he’s on the road and has too much time to think.

He thinks about Derek first, approaching the thought carefully, from around a corner, but it still hits him hard enough to take his breath away and threatens to distract him from the mission at hand.

Not Derek, then.

Lydia.

He had loved Lydia. She was the sun who lit up his whole world. A world that went dark when she left him. Oh, she did it kindly enough. That was part of the problem. She was soft and gentle, hugged him tightly as she said the words. “I can’t do this anymore.” It was the distance. She was on the east coast, happily diving into her post-grad studies at MIT. Stiles was on the west coast, based in the Fresno field office. Zoom calls and occasional visits that were regularly interrupted by pack business hadn’t been enough for either of them but damn it, Stiles had wanted to  _ try.  _

He couldn’t blame her for ending it but that didn’t make it hurt any less.

If Lydia had been the sun, Derek had been the very atmosphere around him. Impossible to escape. 

And yet Stiles  _ had  _ escaped.

He’d had his reasons but Derek had been there, a solid presence in his life since Stiles had been 16 and all flailing arms and tripping over his own feet. Derek had been there when no one else had. When he’d gotten shot in the foot, Derek had appeared from nowhere and carried him out.

There had been times that Stiles thought they might have something. He wasn’t sure what. But  _ something.  _ Something more than pack mates or colleagues or even friends. But the timing had always been wrong. Every single time he thought he might say something or do something, to find out if he was right, he stopped. Either there were other people involved - Malia, Lydia, Braeden - or his own stupid lack of self esteem had gotten in the way and he hadn’t said what he wanted to say.

Sometimes he’d thought Derek was about to say or do something but then he stopped too and somehow this thing between them had been left unexplored.

And then everything had fallen apart and -

_ Fuck!  _

Stiles slams the brakes on to avoid a deer that’s decided to take a shortcut across the interstate. The car screeches to a halt. He sits there, breathing hard for a moment, before he checks his mirrors and drives on, reminding himself to  _ focus.  _ Getting into a wreck isn’t going to help Derek.

He does focus for a while. He watches the lines on the road disappear under his wheels, watches the lights blur by, watches the miles tick up on the odometer.

But his thoughts soon take themselves off for a wander again. He’s low on Adderall after being away for a month so he’s been trying to stretch out his supply. It isn’t a problem when he’s fuelled by adrenaline but now the adrenaline is wearing off and he can feel his thoughts running away from him again.

He sighs. He has a few pills in his go bag but he’s going to need those to be on the top of his game when he gets to Derek. He can’t risk taking one now. So he turns up the stereo, drums his fingers on the steering wheel in time with the music, and allows his thoughts free rein.

The pack -  _ Scott’s pack -  _ had fragmented. A handful remained in Beacon Hills. Scott, of course. Chris, most of the time. Parrish. Peter, reluctantly. The others had moved away after high school. London. Paris. New York. Arizona. Mexico. Brazil. Korea. They were scattered across the country and across the globe.

Perhaps it had been inevitable. They’d all been kids, after all, with bright futures ahead of them. 

Everyone came back when they were needed. And sometimes when they weren’t. But that sense of acceptance - of  _ belonging -  _ that Stiles had once felt... 

That was gone.

He was an outsider once again.

His job was important. It kept him busy and it kept him away from so much of the pack business - and the pack socialising. It left him watching his friends as though through a pane of glass. He might as well have been a ghost. Distant and barely remembered.

And then -

And then Lydia had broken up with him and he’d been hurt and stupid and distracted and then -

He tries to stop the thought, he doesn’t  _ want  _ to think of that, not here, not now, not  _ ever.  _

But he can’t.

_ Larry.  _ Or, to give him his full title, Special Agent Lawrence Williams.

Or, to be completely accurate, Special Agent Lawrence Williams, Stiles’ partner and the person who had paid the ultimate price for Stiles’ inability to leave his emotions at home and get the job done.

He’s learned since then. But back then, he’d still been young, still been naive enough to believe that love was everything and his broken heart was all that mattered.

And Larry had died because Stiles was a fucking idiot.

He tries to squash down the memory of his partner being shot in front of him. Tries to force the memory of Larry bleeding out in his arms to stay in the past where it belongs. But he isn’t particularly successful. He hasn’t thought about any of this for  _ years  _ and now it’s all clamouring for attention.

The debrief. The investigation. The  _ all clear  _ from the FBI. The men in suits might have decided Stiles wasn’t to blame but that didn’t change how  _ Stiles  _ felt about it. Even now, six years later, he still blames himself.

He always will.

After all, he’s never forgiven himself for the Nogitsune either. Or Donovan.

Or for leaving his father. Derek. Scott. He left them all behind and he’s never shaken the guilt from that.

The roads are starting to get busy as the morning rush hour picks up, and Stiles’ attention is wavering no matter how much he tries to focus so he pulls off into the parking lot of a roadside motel that charges by the hour. It’s seedy but it’s clean. He sets an alarm for four hours time, lies down and is asleep moments later.

*

He’s back on the road shortly after 11.30. His thoughts are no quieter; no less prone to taking themselves in directions that he would prefer they didn’t.

The funeral. Larry’s funeral. 

It had been awful. His father had been there, standing beside him for moral support even though Stiles hadn’t asked him to. He’d listened to the priest. Said prayers to a god he didn’t believe in. Sung meaningless hymns.

And he’d watched Larry’s family. His wife, Karen. Two kids, Amelia and Ben. The family he’d spent so many evenings and weekends with, in their suburban home with a white picket fence and a Golden Retriever called Jack. He loves them almost as much as he loves his own family.

His heart shattered into a hundred pieces as he watched them crying beside the grave, just like he’d cried beside his mom’s grave. And Allison’s. And every victim of the Nogitsune when he’d insisted on attending their funerals too.

He couldn’t deal with any more hurt. Any more grief.

So he’d shut down his emotions, left town and gone out for revenge.

If the FBI couldn’t get to Larry’s killers, Stiles would do it himself. 

Alone.

Two days after the funeral, he said goodbye to his father. And to Scott. He’d offered the barest minimum of an explanation but they knew anyway. He could see the disappointment in their faces.

But it was for the best. He was a danger to everyone. The pack didn’t need him. He needed to be away from people.

Except for one person.

The one person who really understood him.

Derek.

But Derek wasn’t there. He was off doing  _ werewolfy  _ stuff. Important pack business, no doubt, or checking in with Cora, but he wasn’t  _ there.  _ For the first time since they met, Derek wasn’t there for Stiles.

And in return, Stiles wasn’t there when Derek needed him either.

He’s going to change that.

He’s going to get to Derek.

When he emerges from those thoughts, he’s six hours closer to Beacon Hills. The roads are getting busy again for the evening rush hour so he pulls into a roadside diner that promises the best burger in the world and will inevitably serve him a plate full of barely edible crap but he’s hungry and he doesn’t have to take a diversion so it’ll do.

He takes his time to eat, waits until the traffic has died down a little before he sets off for the last stretch.

His heart is heavy as he drives.

He’s going back to Beacon Hills.

He’s going back to his father.

To Scott.

To the pack.

To Derek.

He honestly hadn’t meant to stay away. He’d needed to take revenge for Larry and his family but then he’d planned to go back.

Except it had gotten harder as time went on. He killed people. Knowingly. Deliberately. Painfully. Scott won’t have killers in his pack so Stiles had become an outcast of his own making.

There is no acceptance waiting for him in Beacon Hills.

But he’s going home anyway.

He has to.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles gets back to Beacon Hills but he isn't sure what sort of a welcome he's going to receive.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks so much for all the lovely comments so far - hope this fic keeps living up to expectations XD

Stiles passes the town sign just before 10pm. He’s been on the road for 22 hours and he’s dog-tired despite the nap he’d taken to avoid the morning rush hour traffic. 

What he  _ wants  _ to do is go straight to Scott, to demand answers  _ (where is he? how the fuck did this happen?) _ and to start gathering information, making plans, to do  _ something. _

But he isn’t sure where Scott is living now. It seems unlikely he’s still living at Melissa’s. He could call HQ and get an address within 30 seconds but a) that would require an explanation that he doesn’t want to give, and b) he’s so tired that he just nearly drove into a ditch which means he needs to sleep before he starts planning an operation.

So, instead, he turns left and heads towards his old home. He owes his father that. He hasn’t seen him for six years and they’ve only spoken on the phone a handful of times since he left. Mostly he keeps track of his father via google searches and occasionally asking someone at HQ to run a quick check. He knows he’s safe and he knows he’s still living in the same house and he knows he’s still Sheriff.

It’s been enough. It puts his mind at rest without bringing him too close.

He stops on the street, a few houses away. Maybe he should have called first but he doesn’t think “hey Dad, I’m coming back but only to get Derek, then I’m leaving again” is a particularly great introduction after so long. But then turning up on the doorstep and expecting a bed for the night isn’t great either.

Maybe he should just go to a motel.

No.

His father deserves better than that.

Stiles steels himself to receive his father’s disappointment and anger, and drives the few yards to the house he’d once called home. His father’s cruiser is parked on the right, the same side he’d always parked, so Stiles pulls in on the left and parks beside it, right where he used to park the Jeep. He cuts the engine and looks up at the house.

The porch light flickers on so his father has obviously heard him.

No going back now.

Stiles sighs and gets out of the car. He’s stiff after so long behind the wheel but he’s young enough that he’ll be able to walk it off in a few minutes. He locks the door behind him. If he’s allowed to stay (and he’s certain he will be, his father won’t turn him away), he can grab his bag and weapons cases later.

By the time he reaches the porch, his father is standing there. There’s a gun in his hand which he’s holding down, carefully positioned beside his thigh where it would be hidden from a casual observer.

Stiles is far from a casual observer.

“Help you?” Noah asks, his voice guarded. He’s squinting a little as he peers into the dark.

“Hey Dad,” Stiles says quietly and steps into the tiny circle of light.

_ “Stiles?!”  _ Noah sets the gun down on the porch railing.

“Ye-” is as far as Stiles gets before he’s pulled into a bone crushing hug. His ribs creak in protest. He doesn’t utter a single squeak because it’s the first hug he’s had in six fucking years and he doesn’t particularly want it to stop.

“It’s so damn good to see you, Son,” Noah says thickly. “Scott called, said he spoke to you and you’d come but he wasn’t - none of us know where you’re living and how long it might take you.”

“Montana. 22 hours.”

Noah winces and lets go of Stiles. Stiles doesn’t particularly want him to but it’s good that he does. Stiles can’t allow himself to be soft like that. Not now. Not ever.

“Long drive, kid. You stop-”

“Stopped for a couple of hours sleep, food, yeah. You drummed that into me.  _ Don’t drive when you’re tired, Stiles.  _ So I don’t.”

“Good.” Noah just manages to restrain himself from ruffling Stiles’ hair. “What’s your plan?”

“Sleep for a few hours. Find Scott. Get Derek.”

Noah nods. “I’ll make up the guest room. Scott’s probably at the Argent bunker. We’ll head over there first thing.”

“We?”

“Yeah.  _ We.  _ Your old man isn’t as old and useless as he looks.”

Stiles swallows the emotions that threaten to rise for what feels like the millionth time in the last 22 hours. “Thanks, Dad. It’s really ok if I stay?”

“Sure it is, kid.”

“I’ll just - I need to grab my stuff from the car.”

“You do that, I’ll make up the bed. Come inside when you’re ready. There’re beers in the fridge, or coffee in the pot.”

Stiles manages the closest thing to a smile he can muster these days and goes back to the car. He collects his gun from the glove compartment, then his bag and weapons cases from the trunk, and takes them all inside.

Nothing has changed inside the little house. Even the fish decorations are still on the wall. In fact, it seems that the only thing that’s changed is that it’s now a guest room instead of Stiles’ bedroom but then it hasn’t been his bedroom for a long time now; after he joined the FBI and got an apartment in Fresno, his father had redecorated it and turned it into a more neutral space instead of teenage-boy-chaos space. But it had still been  _ his bedroom  _ when he came home for visits and hearing it referred to as the guest room stings more than it should.

He puts everything at the bottom of the stairs. He’ll take it all up with him later. Then he checks the locks on the front and back doors and goes into the kitchen.

By the time Noah comes downstairs, Stiles is sitting at the little breakfast table in the kitchen, sipping a beer. He’s somehow both hauntingly familiar and a complete stranger. 

Noah isn’t entirely sure how to handle this so he gets himself a beer and sits down opposite Stiles. “Bed’s all made up.”

“Thanks, Dad.” Stiles takes another sip of beer. “How have you been?”

“Oh, you know, kid, same old same old.”

“And everything around town, it’s...quiet?”

“Stuff happens. Of course it does. But Peter takes care of most of it and Scott’s around more often than not.”

“And you haven’t been in danger?”

“Not once.”

Stiles nods. That’s good to know. He knows it’s been pretty quiet - supernatural stuff might not make the headlines but there’s usually some hint and he can spot a cover story from a mile away. Gas leak. Wild animal attack. Nothing remotely like it has come up in his searches and Scott hasn’t called him until now so he figured it was either all under control or tightly under wraps but it’s still good to have confirmation that everything’s ok.

Noah studies him for long enough that Stiles starts to feel like squirming before he eventually asks, “How have you been, Stiles?”

Stiles shrugs. “Good. Y’know. Been doing...stuff.”

“Stuff you want to tell me about?”

Stiles screws up his face, looking every inch the reluctant teenager he’d once been. “Not anything you want to know about.”

“Try me.”

Stiles sighs. He only offered the barest minimum of an explanation when he left six years ago. He doesn’t particularly want to fill in the gaps with highly unpleasant discussions of the things he’s been doing, but his father deserves some answers.

“Black Ops,” he says after a moment.

“Military?”

“CIA.”

Noah raises his eyebrows. “CIA? I thought - didn’t you quit the FBI before you left? How’d you end up with the CIA?”

“Long story. The short version is - I found the people who killed Larry, turns out the CIA were keeping tabs on  _ me,  _ followed me, killed them before I could, recruited me.”

“And...Black Ops?”

Stiles nods. “Officially, I don’t exist. Stiles doesn’t exist. I have a cover story and a government issued fake ID. Anything happens to me, they burn it.”

Noah feels vaguely sick. He’s spent enough time in the army and law enforcement to know what Stiles is. He’s not a spy. He’s an assassin. “Sounds exhausting, Son,” he says, carefully keeping his voice and expression devoid of any hint of disapproval, “living a life full of lies like that.”

Stiles swallows hard, squashes down the emotions that threaten to rise at the acknowledgement his father has given him. He feels  _ seen.  _ For the first time in years. “It is, but - but I’m doing  _ good,  _ Dad. You wouldn’t approve and Scott wouldn’t either, but what I do, it’s...right.”

“I’m proud of you, Stiles. Maybe I wouldn’t approve of the methods you no doubt have to use, but I’m proud of you.”

“Thanks, Dad,” Stiles says quietly, and surreptitiously wipes a stray tear away with his sleeve.

Noah smiles reassuringly. “So, you can’t tell me anything about what you do at work, I know that, but what about the rest of your life? Tell me about that.”

That’s safer territory. Stiles can talk about this, albeit with a few less details than he might otherwise mention, but it’s a conversation they can have. It’s  _ normal.  _ There’s been precious little  _ normal  _ in his life for a long time, even before the CIA happened. Admittedly the supernatural had become a normal part of his life but he’s perfectly able to accept that it isn’t strictly normal for anyone else.

“Uh, so I moved around a bit. Training was in Roanoke Valley. After that I moved to Providence, Rhode Island but that was -”

“Not a million miles away from Lydia in Boston, right?”

Stiles nods. “Right,” he confirms. “Every time I went into the city, I was taking the risk of running into someone who knows me and might blow my cover. So I went back to Roanoke for a while but that’s my - I guess he’s my boss, sort of? But not really.”

Noah laughs softly. “He’s your boss but your authority issues won’t admit that. Got it.”

Stiles grins. “Yeah. That much hasn’t changed. If I wasn’t so good at what I do, I’m pretty sure they’d have burned me before now.”

“Still a troublemaker, then. Good.”

“That’s not what you used to say.”

“What can I say? Absence makes the heart grow fonder? I miss you, kid. Trouble and lies and all.”

Stiles gulps down the lump in his throat. “I miss you too, Dad.”

Noah waves him off. “So staying with your boss didn’t work out. Where next?”

“Like I said, Montana. Got a cabin east of Bozeman. It’s...quiet. Good for downtime. Been there for four years now.”

“So you’re settled. That’s great, Stiles. Are you happy?”

Stiles shrugs. “I’m not sure I believe in happiness.”

“Can understand that. Everything you’ve been through…it’s been a lot for you.”

“Yeah.” Stiles won’t let himself think about any of that. Not  _ now.  _ He can deal with all that later. He’s thought about it enough today already. “So fill me in on what’s been happening here. What have I missed?”

Noah smiles. “Well, Chris moved in with Melissa and Scott, and then Scott moved out. He and Malia now live in Chris’ old apartment. Peter built a new house out at the old Hale place. I saw Natalie the other day, she says Lydia is now teaching at MIT in between her research. Don’t ask me what it’s about, Natalie told me but it’s long and complicated and I only understood one word in ten.”

They chat, then, about old times and what everyone’s up to. Noah hasn’t kept up with everyone, especially the younger pack members, but he’s mostly in the loop about stuff. They laugh over a raucous story about Coach that involves more nudity than either one of them wants to think about, and it all feels  _ normal,  _ like Stiles has never been away.

Except that he  _ has  _ been away. And they both know it. There’s so much left unsaid.  _ I’m sorry I left, Dad. You hurt me when you left, kiddo.  _ They don’t need to say any of it. Maybe one day. But not today.

Today they chat. 

Stiles carefully avoids asking anything about Derek and who has him and why. Noah carefully avoids any mentions of Derek’s name. Neither of them wants to get into that tonight.

Well. Stiles  _ does.  _ But he needs to talk to Scott, and he needs to be on his A game and he can’t do that without getting a good night’s rest and he can’t do  _ that  _ without first putting things right with his father. Or at least taking the first steps towards doing that.

So he smiles and laughs and chats and sips his beer and when it’s late enough to be reasonable, he excuses himself so he can go to bed.

Noah watches him go, watches him carry his bag and what are presumably cases of weapons up the stairs. Then he opens another beer and sits down with a weary sigh.

Stiles is  _ different.  _ Of course, that’s to be expected, it’s been six damn years since they saw each other and he can count the number of times they’ve spoken on the phone on the fingers of one hand. He wasn’t expecting to ever see Stiles again. He definitely wasn’t expecting Stiles to be exactly the same as he was when he left.

But he wasn’t expecting him to be this different, either.

The clumsiness and inattention is all but gone. His hair is longer and curls around his face in a mess. He’s packed on some muscle; he’s still lean but his frame speaks of a wiry strength. He’s taller. Well, no, he isn’t, when Noah hugged him, Stiles fit against him in the same way he always had, but he carries himself taller. Holds his head higher. 

And there’s a hardness to him. The broken husk of a young man that Noah had last seen has gone. This Stiles is different. He’s intense and dark and Noah knows full well that his son is capable of things he never dreamed he could be.

Things that scare him.

But Stiles is his son and there have been times when Noah wondered if he was even still alive. No matter who or what Stiles is now, he’s alive and healthy (if Noah discounts the barely healed cuts and bruises on his face), and that’s more important than anything else.

He breathes out a long sigh of relief and sips his beer.

Stiles is safe.

He’s home and safe and whole.

He might not be staying but he’s safe.

Stiles is safe.

*

Stiles piles the weapons cases beside the bed. It isn’t as secure as a locked closet but he’s a light sleeper and he doesn’t imagine for a minute that anyone’s going to break into the Sheriff’s house and steal weapons that no one even knows are here. Hurley would punch his lights out for it but it’s only one night and it’s better than leaving them in the car which is his only alternative.

He glances around the room which is nothing like he remembers it. There’s nothing  _ Stiles  _ left in here at all. Maybe that’s a good thing. After all, he isn’t really Stiles anymore either.

He draws the curtains and goes into the bathroom to brush his teeth. At least his father didn’t ask about the partly healed cuts and bruises on his face. He doesn’t particularly want to explain how he got those by deliberately getting himself run over by an Alfa Romeo on the streets of Rome. 

(Ok, maybe there’s a bit of Stiles still left in him, because that was a very  _ Stiles _ plan - he needed a car, he jumped in front of one, got hit, the driver jumped out to check on him, Stiles jumped into the car and drove away with it.)

The story doesn’t show him in a great light and he honestly can’t remember which injuries he got from that and which he got from a later fight when he was trying to disarm three bodyguards all at once but as they’d all ended up very dead, that one shows him in an even worse light.

So yeah. He’s glad his father didn’t ask about them.

Back in the bedroom, he strips down to his boxers and gets into bed to try to get some sleep.

He doesn’t want to.

He doesn’t want to lie here and sleep and be  _ normal  _ when Derek is fuck knows where with fuck knows what happening to him.

No. What he wants is to down an entire pot of coffee and several Adderall pills, and get to work. He wants to get to Derek. He wants to make sure he’s safe and he’s where he wants to be. Preferably by Stiles’ side in Montana but he’s flexible on that part of the plan. As long as Derek is safe.

Which can’t happen while he’s lying here in bed.

He thinks about getting up again, going downstairs and creeping out and going to the bunker to find Scott or Chris or someone who can tell him what the  _ fuck  _ is happening and why and give him the information he needs to make a plan.

But he can’t. He’s too well trained, too disciplined, too professional for that. He wouldn’t do it for any other mission and this one is too important to risk operating at any less than 100% efficiency.

It’s just another mission.

New job. New team. No emotions. It’s the only way. He’s good at what he does.  _ Damn  _ good at what he does. Really,  _ really  _ fucking good at what he does. He needs to rely on his knowledge and his skills and treat it like any other normal (or, normal-for-him) job. He can’t afford to let his emotions cloud his judgement. Not even for a single second.

Preparation. Planning. Performance.

That’s how he’s going to get Derek out of wherever it is he’s being held.

And he’s going to do that tomorrow.

He switches out the light, closes his eyes and, after some well practiced brain-hacking techniques, is fast asleep in moments. 

And if his dreams are filled with nightmarish images, well, he doesn’t have to tell anyone about that.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Stiles goes to the Argent bunker and starts gathering the information he needs to come up with a plan to rescue Derek

Stiles wakes, as is his usual way, precisely three minutes before his alarm goes off in the morning. It doesn’t matter what time it’s set for, he wakes three minutes before it goes off. Every time. Even in his downtime, he doesn’t sleep late. If he sleeps past 7am, he considers it a miracle.

He swings his legs over the edge of the bed and sits up, looking around the room which is dimly lit by the streetlight outside. His alarm was set for 5am. He switches it off before it sounds so it doesn’t wake his father.

The light is just enough for him to find the bottle of Adderall in his bag. He dry swallows a pill and goes across to the bathroom for a cold shower while he waits for it to kick in. Then he gets dressed in his usual mission gear. All black clothes, all close fitting so there’s nothing for an assailant to grab hold of. Black boots with thick but flexible soles so he has protection if he has to kick the shit out of someone but he can still feel what he’s doing if he has to climb over something. Once he’s dressed, he adds his holsters - one on each ankle for his knives, one around his waist so his trusty Glock sits comfortingly on his hip.

There. He’s good to go.

He grabs his bag and weapons cases and goes downstairs in search of coffee.

The lights are on downstairs. Did his father leave them switched on the night before? Stiles’ hand drops to his hip automatically as he makes his way across to the kitchen.

He’s barely made it to the doorway before Noah is in front of him and shoves a travel mug of coffee into his hands.

“Figured you’d want to get going,” he says.

“Uh - how - why are you up?”

Noah laughs softly. “I’m an old man, kid, my bladder hasn’t let me sleep past 4am for years.”

“But -” Stiles is somewhat baffled, he’s usually alert to every sound, he would have woken if his father was moving around the house. “I didn’t hear you.”

Noah squeezes his shoulder. “I got a lot of practice creeping around this house trying not to wake you when you were a baby. C’mon, Scott’s going to meet us at the bunker.”

“You already called him?”

“Text. Don’t look so surprised, your old man isn’t as useless as he appears to be.”

Stiles smiles the most genuine smile he’s managed for years.  __ “Thanks, Dad.”

Noah pulls away and grabs his own travel mug filled with coffee. “Right. Let’s go make a plan and get Derek back.”

Stiles nods. He might not have the backup of the CIA behind him but he has a  _ team.  _

He isn’t alone. 

*

After a brief discussion, they decide to take both cars to the bunker. Noah might get a work call so he needs the cruiser, and Stiles - well, Stiles has been on his own for so long that he doesn’t want to have to rely on anyone else to give him a ride if he needs one. He’s perfectly capable of getting hold of a car if the situation requires it but his is  _ right here  _ so why go to the trouble when he has one he can use?

The drive gives the caffeine time to work. And it gives him a chance to clear his head so that when he arrives at the bunker, he’s ready to go to work straight away.

Noah parks right beside him. They walk through the underground corridors together, with Stiles a step in front, until they reach a locked door. It buzzes open before Stiles can knock. Someone must have been watching their arrival.

“Stiles!” Scott looks genuinely happy to see him. He’s older, of course, and is wearing more stubble than he’d even been able to grow the last time Stiles had seen him, but he’s still the same old Scott, full of puppy dogs and rainbows.

“Scott.” Stiles nods.

Scott looks like he’s coming in for a hug but Stiles turns away. There’s so much he wants to say, so many words that are threatening to fall out of his mouth. He can’t say any of them. That isn’t what he’s here for. He has a job to do, a mission to carry out. 

Maybe after that.

Maybe he can say them after that.

There’s no time for emotional reunions right now.

“Stiles,” Chris greets him warmly, appearing from the other side of the large room.

“Chris.” Stiles nods again, all business. “What can you tell me?”

“Prison,” Scott blurts out. 

Stiles raises his eyebrows. “Prison?”

“It’s a - it’s a sort of supernatural prison.”

“Ok. Hunters, then?” It isn’t a big leap to that conclusion, there are very few people in the world who even know about the supernatural, let alone how to contain supernatural people. Hunters being responsible is a reasonable assumption.

Scott nods.

Anger bubbles up inside Stiles. He turns towards Chris. “Your people have him?”

“I’m not a hunter anymore, Stiles. You know that.”

“Your people have him,” Stiles says again, more forcefully this time. He can feel his father’s disapproval from across the room but he doesn’t care. Hunters have Derek. Chris is a hunter. Therefore there’s someone to blame and throw some anger at.

Chris looks down, then back up, meeting Stiles’ gaze. “Yes.”

“And you can’t, I dunno, just negotiate with them for his release?”

Chris laughs, thin and brittle and entirely without humour. “As far as the hunter community is concerned, I’m part of the McCall pack. The worst of the worst. A hunter who defected to the other side. A deserter. They’ll kill me on sight. Negotiating isn’t an option.”

“And you can’t do anything officially?” Stiles says, directing the question at Noah.

“Nope. I’ve been working with Scott’s dad to try to figure something out but we need evidence and warrants and we can’t get any of that without explaining that werewolves exist.”

Stiles nods. He doesn’t usually have to worry about that sort of thing these days but he remembers the mountains of red tape from his time in the FBI well enough. On the plus side, if nothing official can be done to get Derek out, then nothing official can be done to  _ stop  _ Derek getting out either, which means he basically has free rein to do whatever needs to be done with no comebacks.

Good.

“Ok. What do we know about these people?” he asks.

Chris puts a handful of dossiers down on the large table. “This is everything we have. Three leaders, brothers, all from a big hunting family. Plus guards, fifteen on each shift, three shifts per day.”

Stiles rifles through the papers. There’s an impressive amount of information here for only a day or two’s work. “You’ve been keeping tabs on them for a while?”

“Didn’t even know about them until they took Derek. They’ve been under the radar.”

“And you’ve got all this -” Stiles gestures towards the papers “- in a couple of days.”

Chris hesitates and Scott answers for him.

“It’s - it’s been longer than that, dude.”

Stiles looks up sharply. “How long?”

“Uh - we thought, we thought it was gonna be simple and then it - well, it wasn’t -”

“How long?!”

Scott rubs the back of his neck. He looks distraught. Tired and distraught. “27 days.”

“A month? They took Derek  _ a month  _ ago and you only called me the day before yesterday?”

“You’re  _ out,  _ Stiles. I didn’t want to call you until I knew we needed you. I hoped we wouldn’t.”

Stiles sighs. Scott has a point. He was -  _ is -  _ out. He has no right to expect to be called straight away. Which doesn’t stop it pissing him off that they didn’t, but he knows that’s unfair. Especially because he wasn’t reachable until the day before yesterday and he wouldn’t have been able to help anyway. But still. It pisses him off. It also pisses him off that they’ve had plenty of time to get Derek out and they haven’t managed it which makes him wonder what the fuck they’ve been doing.

He takes a deep breath. He can’t afford to lose control of his emotions. Not now. “And you’re sure he’s still alive?”

Scott nods. “Lydia - she says she’ll be able to tell if Derek dies.”

“Ok, so he’s probably just being maimed and tortured then. Good to know.” Stiles tugs at his sleeves, pulls them further up his wrists.  _ No emotions.  _ No thinking about Lydia or what Derek is going through or anything except the job in front of him. “So. Three leaders, 45 guards split over three shifts. How did they take Derek?”

“Bait and switch,” Chris says. “Lured Derek to one location, us to another.”

“So he was alone?”

“He’s been alone for a long time now.”

Stiles’ throat works furiously to swallow yet another ball of emotions that he doesn’t have time for now. As busy as he’d been with all of his FBI work, he’d only been distantly aware that Derek and Braeden had broken up and that Derek was now working alone. Derek has been alone for years. And now he’s more alone than ever.

Stiles won’t rest until Derek is back and safe.

He won’t.

He clears his throat. “Ok. Tell me about the prison. What do you know?”

Chris spreads a map out on the table and jabs his finger at it. “There’s a compound here. Out in the middle of nowhere, about an hours drive from here.”

“Good. No witnesses or innocent bystanders. Security?”

“Loads,” Scott says. “There’s mountain ash everywhere. And I mean  _ everywhere.  _ Everything is covered in silver or wolfsbane. High frequency sound emitters, too, most of the pack can’t get within a mile of the place. The alpha power gets me closer than the others but I still can’t get past the fence. Peter -”

“Peter’s tried,” Chris goes on. “He’s scared and full of rage, like he was when - well, you know what he was like, back then. But Scott’s managed to get the closest.”

Stiles nods. “Ok, and the non-supernatural security?”

“Tight,” Chris says. “Braeden and I got in but we were outgunned, two against sixteen. There’s only so much we can do.”

Stiles nods again. “Anyone else there? Or just Derek?”

“We got some out. Some werewolves, a banshee who didn’t even know she’s a banshee, all kids. But Derek -”

“He’s more of a threat,” Stiles says, cottoning on immediately.

Chris nods. “He’s heavily guarded, kept deep within the prison. We didn’t even get close to him.”

“You gave up.”

“We didn’t  _ give up,”  _ Chris says hotly. “We had others to get to safety, we had to make a judgement call.”

“But you didn’t go back.”

“They stepped up their security, we couldn’t even get close a second time.”

“Did you even try?”

“Stiles,” Noah says gently.

Stiles holds up his hand in the universal gesture for  _ shut up, I’m talking now.  _ “Did you?”

“No, we -”

“Ok, kid,” Noah tries again. “Chris and Braeden got the others to safety. Lay off a bit, would ya?”

Stiles takes a breath and nods. “Ok, fine, but I still want to know how the fuck this happened. You’re meant to be a pack and you let this happen to one of your own?”

“Derek prefers to work alone,” Scott says miserably.

“So do I. That doesn’t mean you don’t watch his fucking back.”

Scott nods. “If I could change things…”

“Yeah, well, you can’t. No one can.” Stiles runs his hand across his face. He’s close to losing it and he  _ can’t.  _ He can’t lose it. He’s let these people down so badly, they deserve better and - most importantly -  _ Derek  _ deserves better. Derek deserves all of them working as a team and if that means Stiles has to swallow his fury and resentment and  _ play fucking nice,  _ that’s what he’ll do.

“Sorry,” he says. He isn’t particularly sorry but he needs to keep the peace and maybe soothe some of the hurt that’s etched onto Scott’s face. “Do you have blueprints? Plans? Anything?”

“Yes.” Chris pulls out rolls of blueprints and spreads them out on the table beside the map. “It’s a single storey building, no basement, no attic, flat roof. Foundations are deep and filled with mountain ash. The only way out with the supernatural folk is through this door -” he taps on the paper. 

Stiles studies the plans, leaning over with his elbows on the table.

There’s a large room to the side of the door, which has thick walls marked on the plans. Across the corridor are two smaller rooms. More doors lead to a communal area with a row of small rooms surrounding it, then a thin corridor leads to a separate area with bigger rooms and thicker walls.

“What are these rooms?” he asks.

Chris taps the plans. “Armoury, office, locker room. Cells. We haven’t got through to the other rooms yet but we think at least one of them is used for -” he grimaces and trails off.

“Experiments,” Noah says quietly. “I interviewed one of the kids Chris and Braeden brought out. They were being experimented on.”

Stiles feels sick. He’s very glad he didn’t eat breakfast because he would have lost it. As it is, his stomach is fighting a battle with the coffee he’d drunk. He can’t afford to lose his focus. 

Noah squeezes his shoulder. “We’re fairly sure Derek’s being held in one of these rooms.”

“Ok,” Stiles says, all business once again. “Tell me about the guards?”

“Four guards cover the communal area,” Chris says, tapping the plans again. “There’s no -”

“No cover. Yup. Got it.”

Chris nods. “Then there’s two at the doors at each end, no one can get in or out of that corridor.”

“Ok, that’s eight. The others?”

Chris taps the plans. “Four cover these rooms,” he says, pointing at where they think Derek is being held. “Then there’s two on the gate, plus one patrolling.”

Stiles nods. “And the leaders?”

“One leader on each shift, could be anywhere but the office is here.” Chris taps the map again. “Opposite the locked armoury.”

Stiles nods again. “Ok. So 16 to take out. How are they armed?”

“To the damn teeth. They all carry tasers, pistols and semi automatic rifles.”

Exactly what Stiles would have expected. “Fine,” he says, “and we’re sure Derek is the only one there?”

“No. He  _ was,  _ but that was a week ago. They might have taken more since then.”

Stiles nods as the coffee in his stomach makes another valiant bid for freedom. He won’t know how many hostages he has to rescue until he gets in there. He’s good at thinking on his feet but getting a whole group of scared people out of there is going to be a lot more complex than just getting (a probably pissed off) Derek out of there. There are going to have to be a lot of moving parts in his plan. 

“The people you got out,” he says after a moment, “where are they? How are they?”

“Physically ok,” Scott says. “Mom and Deaton have both checked them over and they’re ok. Psychologically...it’s early days.”

“And they’ll be part of your pack?”

“If they want to be. Otherwise I’ll find other packs for them to go to. We’ll make sure they’re taken care of.”

Stiles nods again. “Ok. We need to make a plan.”

Scott smiles. “You were always the best at plans. Tell us what you need.”

Stiles considers. He doesn’t want the whole pack involved, and all of the emotions that come with that. But he needs  _ people.  _ He needs  _ knowledge.  _ He’s been out of this game for a while and what should be a fairly simple hostage extraction mission is made more complicated by the involvement of supernatural forces.

Scott has to be involved, of course. He’s the alpha of the pack and all round moral conscience. He’s also a calming influence and Stiles desperately needs that. Everyone looks up to Scott. He can keep everyone at their tasks. He’s a leader. Stiles needs him.

Stiles wants to keep his father well away from all of this, keep him safe back in Beacon Hills, but he suspects his father won’t agree to that. He has army and police knowledge. He’ll be useful and it definitely doesn’t do any harm to have a bona fide cop on his side in case things go to shit. Which they very well might.

Chris, of course. He knows the most about hunters generally, and the prison specifically. Plus he has Argent Arms International and access to as many weapons as Stiles might need. His own weapons and ammo stash are enough but it doesn’t hurt to have extra on hand in case things go FUBAR.

Braeden has been inside too. And she’s an all round badass. Stiles is still slightly terrified of her which means she’s really fucking good at what she does. She and Derek haven’t been an item for a long time but she (Stiles presumes, anyway) still cares about him. She’ll be invested in getting him out in one piece.

Peter could be an asset too. He’s as good at planning as Stiles is. Better, maybe. He might not be able to get inside the prison but he’s full of random pieces of knowledge that might be useful if he can be persuaded to reveal any of it without resorting to insults and sarcasm.

And then there’s Parrish. He was an explosives expert when he was in the army and that definitely has potential to be useful knowledge. Stiles prefers to work quick and clean but if he needs a diversion, that’s a good way to get one. Blow the shit out of some stuff. And after he’s gotten Derek out, maybe blow the prison sky-fucking-high so no one can ever use it again.

He nods to himself.

That’s it. That’s his team.

“Ok,” he says after several minutes. “We’re gonna keep this operation small. Need to know basis only. I want Braeden, Parrish and Peter here ASAP.”

“Parrish isn’t here,” Scott says.

“Where is he?”

“Pack business in London.”

Stiles groans. “Ok. The others then. And coffee. I need coffee.


	6. Chapter 6

While they wait for the others to arrive, Stiles sips coffee and pores over the blueprints and map. He isn’t really focusing on them but the alternative is having to make small talk. He’s never enjoyed making small talk.

Especially not the sort of small talk that will tip over into big talk at the slightest provocation.

He also doesn’t particularly want to see the hopeful expression on Scott’s face. The one that says _I have my friend back._ The one that says _I missed you._ The one that says _Please don’t leave again._

He can’t deal with any of that.

So he fixes his attention on the pieces of paper and ignores everyone.

He glances at his watch impatiently. It’s still early, just after 6am. Too early to expect everyone to be here in the blink of an eye, they were probably all still asleep when Scott called them. Which is perfectly reasonable. Or, it _would_ be perfectly reasonable, if Stiles wasn’t in a particularly _un_ reasonable frame of mind. 

But he is. He _is_ in an unreasonable frame of mind. He wants to get on with this. Every minute feels like an hour and seriously, how the _fuck_ can it take someone this long to get out of bed and throw some clothes on and drive down here?

He gets another mug of coffee and reminds himself that it’s only been 15 minutes since Scott made the calls. He isn’t sure where they’re all coming from but if it’s the other side of town, it’ll probably take them 15 minutes just to drive here.

He stares at the plans, sips his coffee, and makes a mental note to start being pissed off again if no one is here within 30 minutes.

Braeden arrives five minutes later. She looks, as she always does, ready to kick some ass, and Stiles is relieved to see she’s armed to the teeth.

He greets her with a nod which she returns. They don’t bother with any pleasantries which might detract from the job at hand.

_Good,_ Stiles thinks. She’s a professional and that’s what he needs.

Peter’s next. He’s immaculately dressed, as is his usual way, but his eyes are glowing bright blue and full of sharp, icy rage. It’s only going to take one wrong word and his thin veneer of control will shatter into a million pieces. 

“Hello Stiles,” he says, politely.

“Peter,” Stiles greets him. “Good, we’re all here. Can we get on with this, please?”

They all join him around the table, except Peter who lurks menacingly in a corner. Stiles doesn’t call him out on it. They probably all know the maps and plans by heart, they must have spent hours staring at them, just as Stiles is doing now. Which is good. He doesn’t have to catch anyone up on anything or spoon feed them information. They know what’s what. 

And they all know what’s at stake.

“What are you thinking, Stiles?” Scott asks, looking to Stiles, as he always has, for a plan.

“I’m thinking I’m going in alone.”

Chris snorts and Braeden laughs.

“You won’t stand a chance,” she says. “There are too many of them.”

“Way too many,” Chris adds. “No cover. You’ll be an easy target.”

“But the two of you got in and out again.”

Braeden nods. “We did but we got lucky and they’ve stepped up security since then.”

“I make my own luck.”

Noah sighs. “Stiles, no. Bad plan. You’re not going in alone.”

“I can do this,” Stiles says. He can, he knows he can, but they _don’t._ They have no idea what he’s capable of.

“Just because you _can_ doesn’t mean you _should._ Let’s all work this out together.”

“Dad -” Stiles starts but he’s interrupted by Peter.

“Stiles, this isn’t kids stuff. It’s dangerous and you’re going to have to be prepared to kill people.” He sounds smug and patronising and Stiles really wants to punch him in the face.

He restrains himself from doing that. Just. “I’m prepared for that,” he says instead.

Peter gives him a dramatic Hale eye roll and an exaggerated sigh, and emerges from the corner he’s been lurking in. “Really? Does the FBI let its baby agents out to do some dirty work now?”

Stiles shrugs. “The CIA do, yeah.”

Peter laughs incredulously. “You, Stiles Stilinski, are CIA?”

“They don’t know me by that name.”

“Ok, and what name do they know you by?”

“Mitch Rapp.” And whatever name he has to use when he’s working deep cover.

“Very well, Mitch Rapp,” Peter says, still sounding disbelieving, “you’re CIA. Desk job? Analyst?”

“No,” Stiles snaps. “I’m the guy they call when they need plausible deniability.” 

He shouldn’t be saying this, it isn’t part of his cover story, he’s probably just breached a million clauses in the official secrets act but he doesn’t care. He doesn’t fucking care about _anything_ right now. Except getting Derek out. And he can’t do that while no one believes that he can do this.

Peter rolls his eyes again. “How many?”

“How many _what?!”_

“How many people have you killed?”

Stiles takes a deep breath, silences the internal scream. “117. All bad guys. How many have the rest of you killed?”

There’s a moment of stunned silence, then Peter takes a step back, glances around the room and gestures at Stiles. “Yeah, he’s leading this operation. Does anyone have a problem with that?”

No one does.

Stiles has made his point and gained an ally but it’s come at a price. Peter and Braeden look vaguely impressed and somewhat reassured but Scott looks shocked, like his whole world view has been shattered because his at-one-time best friend is a murderer. A literal murderer. Chris still looks doubtful. Noah looks carefully neutral, as though he wants to be disappointed but he doesn’t want _Stiles_ to see him disappointed.

“Look,” Stiles says, addressing Scott rather than anyone else. “This is why you called me, right? Because you’re out of options and I’m the only one who can help?”

Scott nods. “Yeah, I thought - I thought maybe you’d have some ideas, I didn’t -”

“You didn’t think I’d go in myself?”

“No. I thought - I don’t know what I thought. I just knew that we needed a better plan and you always had the best plans.”

“So can we get on with planning this operation?”

Chris sighs. “Stiles, can you really do this? I believe what you’re saying and I know you aren’t a kid anymore but this is a lot.”

Stiles suppresses another internal scream. He supposes it’s fair, none of them know him and what he’s capable of but this is wasting valuable time and all he’s done so far is thrown some horrifying kill numbers around which, apparently, isn’t convincing enough.

They need some proof.

So he’ll give it to them.

He doesn’t utter a word. With speed that would rival a werewolf - albeit one of the slower ones, he is only human, after all - he hooks his ankle around Chris’ knee and sends him sprawling to the floor. Another movement and he’s pulled Chris up to his knees and has a knife pressed to his throat. Another and his pistol is out. He aims. Fires.

Seven seconds and the room is one light bulb darker.

He pulls the knife away, holsters it and his Glock, and stretches his hand out to a bewildered Chris. He helps Chris back to his feet and slaps a ten buck note onto the table.

“That’s for your light bulb. Anyone else have any questions?”

He’s proved his point. No one asks any more questions. They give him a little more space, eye him with new found respect.

He isn’t the old Stiles anymore and they all know it. 

Only Peter complains and at least he doesn’t do it verbally. He rubs his fingers over his ears and gives Stiles a reproachful look. Apparently gunshots in enclosed spaces aren’t good for werewolf hearing. 

Stiles can’t bring himself to care much. “Good,” he says. “So let’s get on with a plan.”

*

Finally, they start talking about how to get Derek out. Chris and Braeden describe how they got in last time, and how they got everyone out, which gives Stiles useful information. Scott and Peter talk about what they could see, smell and hear that the human pack members wouldn’t have noticed. That doesn’t give Stiles very much to go on but he files it away in case it’s helpful later.

“Is there cell service up there?” he asks a while later.

“Limited. Might be able to get a text out, not a phone call,” Chris says. “Sat phones.”

“Can I borrow one?”

“We’ll only need one between us.”

“Us?”

“Yes, Stiles,” Chris says, as patiently as he can manage which isn’t very. “Us. As in, all of us who can get past the mountain ash.”

Stiles shakes his head. “I said I’m going alone and I meant it.”

Chris raises his eyebrows. “I didn’t doubt you. But think about it for a minute. Let’s just say you get yourself killed -”

Noah slams his hand on the table. “No, let’s not say that! That’s my _son_ you’re talking about. No one, and I do mean no one, is getting killed.”

“Dad, it’s ok.”

“No! No, it’s not ok! I won’t have anyone risking their lives. I like Derek, I do, and I want to get to him as much as anyone else in this room -”

Peter scoffs loudly. “I doubt that.”

“Fine,” Noah says and runs his hand across his face. “I want to get to him but we are _not_ having any more casualties and we are definitely not putting Stiles at risk for this.”

Stiles wants to scream again but he’s saved having to say anything by Chris raising his hands in a placating gesture.

“Sorry,” he says. “I just meant that if one person goes in and gets themselves killed, the mission fails. Two people means double the chances, three, triple, four quadruple. If we all go, we stand a better chance of getting to Derek and a better chance of not losing anyone in the process.”

“And more chance of shooting each other by mistake,” Stiles points out. 

There’s a reason he prefers to work alone. Yes, he’s very well trained in shooting his target and not innocent people but accidents can happen. They haven’t happened to him yet but that doesn’t mean that they _won’t._ And it could just as easily be someone else shooting him by mistake. He has no doubt that all of them know what they’re doing, they’ve all had similar (if less intensive) training as he’s had, but he’s never worked with them before. Not like this. It’s a risk.

He can also do without the distraction. If the others are there with him - particularly if his father is there with him - it gives him people to worry about. He can’t afford to be going into that situation worrying about people he cares about. All of his focus has to be on this mission.

On Derek.

Chris ignores him and continues. “Going in alone also means that if you get hurt, we have to send others in to help you. If we’re in there with you, we can get you out.”

Stiles could scream. Literally scream. They’re losing time arguing about this and it’s time that Derek doesn’t have to spare. God only knows what’s happening to him. Whether he’s being tortured or killed, how much time he might have left before -

Every hour - every _minute -_ counts.

They’ve lost 27 days.

He doesn’t intend to lose another one.

He isn’t going to win this argument and he knows it so he’s going to stop wasting time on it. “Ok, fine,” he says. “Not going in alone. Let’s move on.”

Braeden nods. “Ok, so we got everyone else out last time, it should just be Derek to get to, but what if it isn’t? What if they’ve taken more people?”

“Get to Derek first,” Stiles says. “By that time, there won’t be any guards left to stop us getting to the others.”

“What if the others are hidden?” Braeden says.

“Derek can tell us.”

“And if he isn’t in a position to?”

Coffee tasting bile crawls up Stiles’ throat. He swallows it back down. “Then we break open every fucking door and check for ourselves.”

“This sounds like an _excellent_ plan,” Peter says, “but you’re forgetting one small detail.”

“Which is?”

“You don’t even know where Derek _is.”_

“Then we break open every fucking door and find him.”

“Stiles,” Braeden says, “you seem to think we haven’t tried that. These guys are - they’re good. Really good.”

Stiles nods. “But I’m better.”

Braeden shakes her head and mutters something under her breath that sounds suspiciously like “arrogant little shit”, follows it up with something that sounds like “going to get himself killed” and then adds “and the rest of us.”

Stiles lets it slide. He doesn’t have time for this bullshit.

“Ok,” he says. “So, we go in, take out everyone who needs to be taken out, we find Derek, get him out, then check for any others, get them out too, we have a sat phone that we can use to call for additional transport if we need it.”

“I’m on that,” Noah says. “We can have the department on standby, or I’ll commandeer a school bus.”

Stiles nods. “Good. We have a plan. It’s not very detailed but it’s a plan. Thoughts on timing?”

“6am,” Braeden says. “They have shift changes at 6, 2 and 10. They’ll be socialising, distracted. It’s the best time.”

“But that means double the guards,” Noah points out. “So 32 instead of 16.”

“32 distracted guards are easier than 16 bored ones who are looking for trouble,” Braeden says.

“We’re talking about killing an additional 16 people,” Scott says, sounding horrified. “Guys, this is _not ok._ I wasn’t ok with killing the guards anyway but I can accept that it has to be done. But an additional 16? No way.”

Chris looks thoughtful. “Could we lock them in a cell?”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Why do we even care about them? They’re the bad guys here, remember?”

Stiles is inclined to agree with him. He doesn’t particularly care how many people end up dead. They took people. They took _Derek._

“Why do we -” Scott says, and scoffs. “Why do we care about them? Because they’re people. We can’t go around killing everyone we don’t like.”

“They have my _nephew!”_ Peter roars.

“And they took others,” Braeden adds. “It’s not a case of not liking them. They’re in the wrong here.”

“Yeah, but -” Scott says.

Stiles tunes out the rest of the conversation which consists of Scott, Chris and Noah arguing that they shouldn’t kill unnecessarily and should take steps to avoid it where possible, with Peter and Braeden countering that they should do whatever it damn well takes.

He already knows which side he comes down on. Peter and Braeden’s. 

Whatever it takes.

While they argue, he contemplates chewing the table out of sheer frustration. Progress is slow. So fucking slow. _Glacially_ fucking slow. He tries to be rational, to remind himself that he’s dealing with - well, maybe not _ordinary_ people, but they don’t have the same resources and training as the CIA do. It’s going to be slower than planning a regular mission. It’s going to take more time to get everyone on the same page.

It’s inevitable. 

It still makes him want to scream.


	7. Chapter 7

An hour later, Stiles still wants to scream. There are too many people. Too many opinions. He knows how to do this. He can get this done, get Derek out and safe, but they won’t let him do it his way and now he’s stuck listening to them argue and bicker.

It’s no fucking wonder they haven’t managed to get to Derek before now.

That’s harsh. He knows it’s harsh. He knows they’ve been trying their best. 

But something needs to change.

He catches Scott’s eye. Scott is the alpha. The leader. He needs to take control of his pack.  _ Stiles  _ needs him to take control of his pack. The constant bickering isn’t getting them anywhere.

Scott nods in return. His eyes glow red and he lets out a near-deafening growl.

“Enough,” he says. “One voice at a time. All you’re doing is arguing over the same things we’ve been through every day for four weeks.”

“I wasn’t -” Peter starts but wisely stops when Scott turns and glares at him, his eyes still red.

“Let Stiles speak. One person at a time answers him.”

There’s a charged silence after that. No one breaks it. Whether they’re officially part of Scott’s pack or not, they’re deferring to his authority, and by default to Stiles’ authority as well.

Which leaves him in an uncomfortable position. He’s acutely aware that they still see him as the awkward kid that he once was, even though he’s shown them that he isn’t anymore. He meets his father’s gaze and relaxes a little when Noah gives him a slight nod, an encouragement to  _ go on.  _

“Ok,” Stiles says. “So I know that none of the supernaturals can get close but can we use them as decoys to lure the guards out so we can take them in the open?”

“Lure them to their deaths, you mean?” Scott says. Apparently he still isn’t over that part of the plan.

“Yes,” Stiles says. “That’s exactly what I mean. We need clear shots.”

Scott pulls a face but doesn’t raise any further objections.

“It’s risky,” Chris says. “They’re as heavily armed as we are. We haven’t been in their armoury to know if they have long range weapons but it’s safe to assume that they do.”

Stiles nods. “But if we provide covering fire, they’re not going to get a chance to take out our guys.”

Chris shakes his head. “They’re using wolfsbane bullets, they don’t need a kill shot to take down one of ours.”

Stiles scrubs a hand across his face. He’d be happy to risk himself doing that and he’s fairly sure that most, if not all, of the pack would take the same chance, but it’s a lot to ask and could easily lead to the wrong sort of chaos. It also creates more moving parts, more people he has to rely on. He’s having enough problems keeping this lot in line without adding more people.

“Ok,” he says. “Not doing that.”

He stays quiet for a moment. Everyone else does too, giving him time to think.  _ Fuck,  _ he’s been out of the supernatural world for so long but there must be  _ something.  _ He drags his mind back, digs out memories that he buried long ago.

“Deaton,” he says.

Scott looks confused, shaking his head with the smile he uses when he isn’t sure what to say but doesn’t want to upset anyone.

“Can Deaton help? When Dad and your mom and Chris were missing, he helped us.”

“And you came back with a thousand year old demon,” Noah interjects. Apparently he hasn’t forgiven Deaton for that. Which, Stiles thinks, is probably fair. He hasn’t either.

“I asked him,” Scott says, “if there was anything he could do to help us find where in the prison Derek is, some sort of tracking spell, anything like that. He said no.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. He’s still fairly convinced that Deaton is one of the least helpful people he’s ever met. “You know, this would be easier if you had GPS implants fitted in your pack members.”

Scott laughs softly. “Wouldn’t that be an invasion of their privacy?”

“I mean, yeah, but…” Stiles leaves the rest of the sentence unsaid. Scott’s right on that point and it wasn’t a serious suggestion anyway, he’s just grousing because getting Derek out and keeping everyone else happy appear to be mutually exclusive tasks. He can do one or the other. Not both. “Ok,” he goes on. “There’s nothing he can do to help us with the mountain ash, or, I dunno, a herb or something to knock the guards out with?”

“He says there’s nothing he can do with the mountain ash, it’s buried too deep. The only way of knocking them out would be injecting them with animal tranquiliser which means hitting them with tranq darts.”

Stiles nods. “Might as well just shoot the fuckers.”

Scott gives him a shocked look.

“Sorry, sorry. But we can’t, I dunno, crush up some tablets and slip something into their coffee?”

“It still means getting someone in there.”

“And once we’re in there, we might as well just shoot the fuckers.”

Scott laughs and shakes his head. “There’s no guarantee all of them will drink it, how long it might last, whether they’d be fully out or whether they might be able to shoot you in the back.”

Stiles nods. “Ok, well, I don’t think that’s a  _ terrible  _ plan but let’s keep it in reserve because you’re right, it gives us more moving parts. I’d rather deal with dead guards than ones that might get back up again. On which note, do they wear armour? Helmets?”

“Armour,” Braeden says, “no helmets. It’ll have to be head shots.”

“Fine,” Stiles says, filing that away for later reference. He prefers head shots anyway. Quick. Clean. No one’s getting back up after that. “Peter, you’ve used magic type stuff before, yes?”

“Indeed I have, Stiles.”

“And is there anything you know of that might help us here?”

“Beyond a resurrection spell when my nephew dies because we’re wasting so much time arguing about how not to kill some very,  _ very  _ bad people in an attempt to stage a rescue? No.”

Stiles nods. That’s a fair comment. A very fair comment. He doesn’t much want to be having this argument either. As far as he’s concerned, he has all the information he needs, he has all the weapons he needs, he could go and get Derek out right fucking now. But they won’t let him. Because they still think he’s skinny, defenceless Stiles. They still think he’s a kid.

He could just walk out. Make his excuses and walk out and go and get Derek. That would probably be best. But his father has always been able to see through his lies and everyone in this room knows he’s invested in helping Derek. They know he won’t leave. Worse, they would probably follow him and then he’d be stuck with a team full of almost-civilians and a half baked plan. Better that he stays and works it out. 

“Fine,” he snaps. “Snipers? Is that an option? You can shoot, right, Braeden?”

Braeden nods. “I can make the shot, if I have some form of cover but Stiles, there’s no  _ height.”  _

“So we give you some height.”

Braeden taps her nail on the map on the table. “To get the angle, I’d need to be at least 20 feet up and there’s  _ nothing.  _ There are no trees, the compound is in 12 hectares of open scrubland, on the top of a damn hill. There’s no way.”

Stiles scrubs his hand across his face. He’s used to doing this stuff with CIA resources. If he needs height for a sniper to work, he calls for a damn chopper but that isn’t going to work here.

“Drones,” he says, the thought leading neatly on from his thought about helicopters. “Ideally weapons drones but surveillance would be good too.”

Chris scoffs. “What sort of tech do you think we have?”

Stiles shrugs. “I think you run an international arms dealership and have access to anything we might need. Ok, maybe not, like, tanks and stuff -” he brightens “- do you have access to tanks and stuff?”

“No, Stiles,” Chris snaps, “I don’t have access to tanks and stuff. Or weapons drones, they’re strictly for military use. I have some surveillance drones but we tried that before and they shot it down before we got any useful images.”

Stiles groans and shoves his hands in his hair, tugging hard enough at the strands to hurt. It calms him. Helps him think.

“Ok,” he starts but he’s interrupted.

“Stiles,” Noah says gently. “Take a breath. Take a minute.”

“We don’t have a minute! I’m fine, will everyone just stop parenting me for two goddamn minutes!”

“Stiles,” Noah says again, more testily this time. “I’m not parenting you. Look around.”

Stiles looks around the room, at their expressions and body language, and he really sees them for the first time.

They’re pissed at him, sure, but beneath that, they’re defeated. Broken. They’ve been at this for a month. He’s been here for less than a day. He has no right to criticise or to bark orders and demand answers.

“We’ve tried, Stiles,” Scott says. There’s no crack in his voice, not like there would have been six years ago. His emotions are either squashed down or he’s so drained that he doesn’t have any left.

“Everything,” Peter corrects, “we’ve tried everything.” 

“There’s nothing,” Chris says quietly.

Stiles nods, softening inside. Just a little. He still has a job to do, after all, he can’t afford to be soft, but he can stop snapping at them and work with them.

“There’s something,” he says. “There’s me. You didn’t have me before. Now you do.”

Scott grins and throws himself at Stiles, pulls him into a hug before Stiles can raise so much as an objection.

“Urk,” Stiles says, being thoroughly squashed.

“This is why I called you,” Scott says.

Stiles pats his back. “Ok, Scotty, good hug. Gonna let me go now? Breathing is kind of important.”

Scott laughs and lets him go.

“Right,” Stiles says. “Now I’ve finished being hugged to death by an over exuberant werewolf, let’s get down to business.”

*

After a quick coffee break that makes Stiles want to chew his mug in sheer frustration at how long it can possibly take five people to make a pot of coffee, that’s what they do.

Get down to business.

“So what we’re really working with is the four of us,” Chris says, “but the supernatural people can still help, they just can’t be close.”

“Three,” Stiles says. 

“Three?” Chris says with raised eyebrows.

“Dad isn’t going in.”

“Like hell I’m not, son!”

“Dad -”

“No, don’t  _ Dad  _ me,” Noah says hotly. “I’m Sheriff of this whole damn county, I was a deputy before that and are you forgetting my time in the Army?”

“No!” Stiles shouts and runs his hands through his hair. “No, Dad, will you just listen for a second.”

Noah bristles a bit but nods.

“Good. Thank you. That’s precisely  _ why  _ I want you to stay here, or close by but not part of the operation. Because I need you to have my back. If anything happens to me, I need to know you’re coming for me and Derek and I need to know you’ll stop at nothing to get to me. Ok?”

Noah’s throat works as he swallows down his emotions. “Ok, kid. I’ve got your back.”

“Thanks, Dad.”

That leaves Stiles with Chris and Braeden. He still wants to go in alone but he’s given up arguing that point. 

There’s still one more argument to be had, though.

“I think it should just be two who go in,” he says.

“Two isn’t enough,” Braeden says. “We tried two, remember?”

Stiles nods. “I know, but if two go in, that leaves two as back up.”

Braeden shoots him a look. “But if three go in, we won’t need back up.”

“We don’t know that.”

“We know that two don’t stand a chance, though.”

“Well, we  _ don’t,  _ all we know is that you and Chris couldn’t do it.”

Braeden shoots him another look that clearly says she’s going to punch Stiles’ lights out if he doesn’t stop pointing that out.

“He has a point,” Chris says, albeit reluctantly. “If two of us go in and fail, that leaves two to make another attempt. If three of us go in and fail, that leaves the Sheriff to make a solo attempt.”

“Exactly,” Stiles says. “I don’t want that. So two go in, two as back up.”

Braeden sighs but nods. “Ok, who’s going and who’s staying?”

Stiles considers that.

They’re both solid choices.

He’s seen Chris in action more than he’s seen Braeden. He’s quick and clean, much like Stiles is. But Chris is also averse to killing people. He can - he  _ will  _ \- if he has to, but it’s clear that he’d prefer not to and Stiles would prefer not to be having that argument while under fire. There’s also the fact that they’re going into a prison full of hunters and Chris is an ex hunter. He might have switched allegiances but they’re still  _ his people.  _ His loyalties are clear but Stiles isn’t sure he’s ruthless enough for this.

Braeden is more like Stiles. She’ll do whatever it takes. They’ll mesh better and that’s important for a mission like this. He trusts her. And she still cares about Derek, perhaps more than anyone except Peter. And Stiles. She’s the logical choice. The smart choice. 

Which is precisely why, two minutes later, he looks up and says, “me and Chris are going.”

Braeden glares icy daggers at him. “I really hope this isn’t some sort of sexism dressed up as chivalry thing.”

“No, no,” Stiles is quick to assure her. “Absolutely definitely not. Nothing to do with that.”

“So what, then?”

“It’s simple, really. Chris and my dad have moral compassess. You and I don’t. So Chris and I go in together, you and Dad are our back up. Two even teams.”

Braeden manages a little laugh at that, though it sounds forced. “Stiles, did you just say that I have no moral compass?”

“I mean, yeah, I did, but I also said that I don’t have one so I figure we’re on even ground here.”

Braeden rolls her eyes but doesn’t argue any further. She and Noah are clearly unhappy about being left behind but Stiles has argued his point well - he needs back up he can rely on.

“Ok, so me and Chris go in, get Derek, get out. Do we have a plan now?”

“Not quite,” Chris says, “we need to work out some practicalities.”

Stiles refrains from saying  _ ugh  _ and they start working out the finer details of the plan.

It takes forever.

*

Another several hours drag by before they have a finalised plan, by which time Stiles has resorted to his old habit of chewing on things when he’s stressed. This time it’s a pen. 

It doesn’t help.

The Adderall is wearing off, he’s losing focus, his thoughts are filled with Derek and a hundred different images of the terrible things that might be happening to him.

He’s quickly sinking into a guilt spiral. He has to get out of here, to do something, to get away from the people who have accepted him back as though he’d never been away. 

He doesn’t deserve that.

He drags together the last of his focus before it abandons him completely, squashes down yet another nightmarish image of Derek covered in blood and screaming, and rolls up his sleeves. 

“Right,” he says loudly, “are we all clear on the plan?”

There are various mutters of “yes” which are less than convincing.

Stiles screams internally, his teeth gritted against the words that want to fall from his mouth. They would be unkind words.

“Ok, Dad, what are you doing?”

Noah gives him an unimpressed look but he answers. “Monitoring official channels from the station, making sure you don’t get any cops out there.”

“Good. And?”

“Standby with transport if there are more people to come back than just Derek.”

“And?”

Noah rolls his eyes. “And I’m the back up plan along with Braeden.”

Stiles nods. “Ok. Good. Braeden?”

“Yes, Stiles?” she says sweetly. She’s probably going to punch him in a minute. She probably already would have if what they were doing wasn’t so important.

“What are you doing?”

“Communications. Waiting for you and Chris to check in. Raise the alarm if you don’t. Feed you information if I get any which seems unlikely. And I’m the back up plan with the Sheriff and I’ll come in and save your asses when it all goes to shit.”

Stiles manages a little smile. “You won’t need to but thanks. Scott?”

“I’ll be as close as I can get. We don’t know what sort of condition Derek will be in. If he’s out of control, I’m the alpha, I can keep him in line.”

Stiles nods. “Peter?”

“Stiles.”

“Peter.”

“Stiles.”

Stiles rolls his eyes. “You know no one likes you, right?”

“I am perfectly aware of that, yes.”

“Good. Just checking. What are you doing?”

“I’m supposed to be helping Braeden with technical stuff because apparently I’m one of the few people around here who knows how to use a computer but she doesn’t need me so I’ll be with Scott.”

“That isn’t the plan.”

“It is now.”

Stiles closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. Then another one. “Ok, fine, you’re with Scott.” It doesn’t make a huge difference in the grand scheme of things so he isn’t going to waste more time arguing about it.

“Does he have to be?” Scott says.

“Yes, because I don’t particularly want to argue with him.”

“Fine. But I don’t like it.”

“Noted. Chris?”

Chris gives him a look that clearly says that he knows what he’s doing and he’s just humouring Stiles by answering. “We meet here at 4.30 tomorrow morning. We take my truck and go out to the prison, hit them at the 6am shift change.”

Stiles nods. “We lock as many guards as possible in the locker room, shoot the rest -”

“I still don’t like it,” Scott objects.

“Maybe we should ask nicely if they’ll let Derek go. Do you think that’ll work?” Stiles says.

“No, but -”

“It’s necessary, Scotty.”

“We’ll try not to kill them, right, Stiles?” Chris says with a meaningful look.

“Yeah, yes, sure, we’ll try not to kill them if there’s any alternative.” Stiles knows they won’t but at least telling Scott they’ll try will quieten down any further objections. “We get Derek, we get any others, we get the hell out of there and call for extra transport if we need it.”

“Your focus will be on finding Derek, mine will be on watching your back while you do that, and searching for any others.”

Stiles nods. “Yup. That’s it. That’s the plan.”

“Good. We’re sorted,” Chris says. “Anyone else have any further thoughts?”

“Yes,” Stiles says. “Weapons. We’ll have pistols and small machine guns, both silenced. You have silencers, I presume?”

Chris gives him a look.

“Ok, good. Plus knives. Anything else?”

“Stun grenades.”

Stiles nods. “Good call. Stun grenades. Any chance you have any blow-shit-up type stuff?”

Chris laughs softly. “Come with me.”

An hour later, Stiles has lifted two stun grenades from Chris’ stash while he wasn’t looking. He’s also had a crash course on explosives and how to use them to remove doors, as well as how to use them to level the whole building. Chris is going to bring them with him in the morning, along with extra weapons, and ammunition for Stiles’ guns. They lose another half hour comparing the merits of various weapons. Chris promises to teach Stiles to use a crossbow if he sticks around for a while after the mission. Stiles isn’t sure when he’ll ever need it but he has to admit it sounds cool and he needs to keep everybody sweet right now. 

They’re going to hate him in approximately 12 hours time.

“Peter,” he says when they go back into the main room, “I need to talk to you. Alone.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There is finally a plan! XD


	8. Chapter 8

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Quick note for folkx who are reading along as I post this - there are some shorter chapters coming up, with some of them under 1000 words. It's just where the chapter break felt natural. But! To make up for it, I'm posting 2-3 at a time so you shouldn't feel too short changed by the baby chapters XD
> 
> Also a heads up for cliffhangers. I'm very sorry. I couldn't help myself. If you're especially bothered by AARGGH making cliffhangers, you might prefer to wait until I post chapter 12 (due Weds 3rd Feb) <3

Stiles doesn’t hang around after that. 

There’s nothing else to say. If he stays, they’ll want to talk. Scott will want to catch up on the past six years and Stiles will have to offer explanations and apologies that feel flat. The best apology he can make is to get Derek back for them.

So he goes back to his father’s house. It isn’t home. Not anymore. Home, insofar as he has one, is the cabin in Montana. This place, it’s just his father’s house. Somewhere he used to live. He can’t afford to think of it as anything else.

They have dinner together, something Noah makes that Stiles barely tastes, though he clears his plate. Noah offers him a beer which Stiles refuses. He needs to be  _ sharp.  _ One beer isn’t likely to dull his senses but he doesn’t want to take the chance. He refuses coffee, too. It’ll keep him awake and he has to be up early so he needs to be asleep at some point before the middle of the night.

He makes polite small talk as they eat, even though it makes him want to scream. Noah tells him about the people at the station. The people he once knew. The people who were once a part of his extended family, who had looked out for him after his mom died, when his dad was busy and he couldn’t go to Scott’s because Rafael McCall was drunk again. It’s nice to hear they’re all ok but at the same time, it’s hard to hear that life has gone on without him. That he isn’t really missed by anybody.

But he made his peace with that a long time ago.

After dinner and some more polite small talk, he retreats to the guest room.

He takes out his weapons and starts checking them. Slowly. Methodically. He can be fast, if he needs to be. Hurley drummed that into him. And he can do it blindfolded if he has to, but he doesn’t need to. Not tonight. Tonight it has to be  _ right.  _

Strip the gun. Check each part. Clean. Reassemble. Check. Check again. Repeat with each weapon. The Glock 19 pistol. The Heckler & Koch UMP 9mm small machine gun. 

He can’t afford to make any mistakes. The guns are what will keep him alive and get Derek out of there. He can’t do this without them. They’re tools. Extensions of himself. He can and has killed with his bare hands before, when it’s been necessary, but he prefers not to. It’s more risky, more chances for things to go wrong. And it won’t work in this situation anyway, he has to work from the greatest distance possible to buy himself time to take out as many guards as he can.

So.

Guns.

He repeats the process with each. No point in leaving anything to chance. Check. Double check. Triple check, if he has even the slightest doubt.

He doesn’t.

Satisfied that the guns are good to go, he puts them away, alongside the silencers that he’ll be using, and checks and re-checks the spare magazines for each.

Then he takes out his knives.

Check. Sharpen. Clean. Check again.

There isn’t much to check on the knives. No moving parts. Not like the guns which could jam or misfire at any moment. They _ won’t,  _ the CIA provides him with reliable weapons and he keeps them immaculate, but it’s  _ possible  _ which is why he has the knives as back up. They’re not as quick or as reliable from a distance but he can throw accurately enough to buy himself time if he needs it.

As he sharpens and cleans the carbon steel, he runs through the plan in his mind, visualising as much as he can. It isn’t much. He doesn’t know where the guards will be. Or where Derek is. But he can picture the layout, which room is where. 

It’s fine. It’s what he’s used to. He doesn’t often get intelligence that gives him the exact locations of targets.

_ Preparation?  _ Check.

_ Planning?  _ Check.

_ Performance?  _ To be confirmed.

Tomorrow.

His weapons are ready. He’s as prepared as he can be. Now he has to focus on himself.

He puts the knives away and lies down. Time to sleep. He’d prefer not to. He’s ready, he doesn’t want to waste a single second, let alone a few hours while he sleeps. 

But to do this, to get Derek out, he has to be at the very top of his game.

And that means getting some sleep so he’s well rested and as sharp as possible.

He sets his alarm and closes his eyes.

*

2.57am.

Alarm off.

Adderall.

He didn’t bother to undress the night before so he doesn’t need to worry about his clothes, just pulls on his boots and gets up.

Holsters.

Weapons cases.

He moves silently around the house he’d once known so well.

He’s on the road at 3.23am.


	9. Chapter 9

Noah hears nothing.

He wakes up when his alarm goes off at 4am and makes his way to the bathroom. On his way back, he peers into Stiles’ bedroom (it will always be Stiles’ bedroom, no matter how often he refers to it as the guest room) and immediately lets out a string of curse words.

He races across the room and peers out of the window where the absence of Stiles’ car confirms his suspicions.

“Damn it, kid,” he mutters under his breath, then hurries back to his bedroom to get dressed.

*

“What do you mean he’s  _ gone?”  _ Chris shouts when Noah tells him.

Noah raises his hands in a placating gesture. He got to the bunker as quickly as he could and now he’s faced with four angry faces. “He’s gone,” he says. “Woke up at 4, no sign of him.”

“He left?” Scott says quietly. “He just...left? He left us? He left Derek?”

Noah shrugs and shakes his head. “I don’t know, Scott. He didn’t tell me anything. He went to bed early, his light was off when I went up last night, he was gone when I woke up this morning.”

“But -” Scott says, betrayal in his eyes.

Peter sighs and rolls his eyes. “He hasn’t  _ left.”  _

Chris turns towards Peter and looks ready to grab him by the throat. “What do you mean he hasn’t left?”

“This was always his plan.”

“What?!” Noah shouts.

Peter rolls his eyes again, even more dramatically this time. “He’s gone in alone.”

“And you  _ knew  _ about this?!”

“Well, yes, Sheriff, I did know about this. He told me yesterday evening.”

“And you didn’t think to tell the rest of us? You didn’t think to tell  _ me?”  _

“He told me not to.”

Scott makes an annoyed sound of disbelief. “Since when do you ever do what anyone tells you?”

“Since Stiles asked nicely.”

Braeden steps into Peter’s space, glaring up at him. “Tell us what you know.”

Peter takes a step back and perches on the edge of the table, his arms folded across his chest. “He said that Plan A was the plan you all made together but it was stupid.”

“It wasn’t stupid,” Chris says. “It was a solid plan.”

“Well, he went with Plan B which is him going in alone.”

“Which  _ is  _ a stupid plan.”

Peter gives him a look. “It isn’t. He’s still a headstrong little shit but he’s determined and ruthless and, like it or not, he’s been trained for exactly this situation.”

“But he’s  _ Stiles,”  _ Scott says, “he’s human, he’s -”

“He’s killed more people than the rest of us put together and are you forgetting the way he dropped Chris and shot out a light yesterday?”

Chris shifts awkwardly. “He’s fast, but he’s reckless.”

“Or brave,” Peter counters.

“Stupid,” Braeden says. 

“Maybe,” Peter says, “but he’s been doing this stuff for years. He wouldn’t still be alive if he was reckless and stupid.”

Noah sighs. “I don’t like it but you’re right. He hasn’t told me much, I don’t think he  _ can  _ tell me much, but what he’s doing...he’s been trained for this.”

“Exactly. He knows what he’s doing. He doesn’t want to put anyone else at risk and he knows that Derek wouldn’t want that. And he’s right. Derek  _ wouldn’t  _ want that, as much as it pains me to say it.”

Noah runs his hands across his face. “Just please tell me he has a Plan C?”

Peter hums. “Not really. Plan C is the rest of you having to rescue him but he knows it won’t happen so he didn’t think too much about it.”

“I’m really not ok with this,” Braeden says. “There’s as much chance he’ll get himself and Derek killed as there is that he’ll get them both out safely.”

Chris nods. “I agree. I think we need to go after him.”

Peter laughs. “How far ahead is he? Do you even know?”

Noah shakes his head. “He could have been gone for hours for all I know, I didn’t hear a thing.”

“So we probably won’t catch up to him,” Peter says.

“So we go after him anyway,” Braeden says. “Maybe we can’t help him but if it’s all gone to shit, maybe we’ll be in time to save them both.”

“And if Derek’s struggling with control, we need to be there,” Scott says.

“Someone needs to stay here in case they come back,” Peter says. “I’m going with Scott. I imagine the Sheriff won’t stay behind. So that leaves the two of you to argue about who stays and who goes.”

“We all go,” Scott says. “We need everyone. I’ll call Malia to come and wait here in case they come back.”

*

By the time Malia arrives, it’s a little past 5am.

Noah is halfway out of the door, fully intending to go to the prison alone, when she walks in.

“I don’t know why we’re worrying about  _ Stiles,”  _ she says breezily and with utmost confidence. “It’s  _ Stiles.  _ He has a plan, he’ll get Derek, it’ll be fine.”

“It might not be -” Noah starts, then cuts off when his phone buzzes with a text. He stares at his phone, his eyebrows raised. “Ok, we don’t need to go anywhere.”


	10. Chapter 10

Stiles has memorised the route to the prison so he doesn’t have to use GPS. The CIA probably has a tracker in the car anyway so it doesn’t make much difference but GPS data can be subpoenaed by other agencies and the likelihood of the CIA giving up tracker data is about as close to zero as it’s possible to get. Not using GPS offers him a certain amount of protection if things go to shit.

Which they might.

He’s about to commit murder. Not self defence (though he could argue a point that he’s defending someone else’s life which absolutely counts as self defence). Not government sanctioned.

Just murder.

Mass murder.

He thinks he should probably care more about that than he actually does but he isn’t going to worry about his complete lack of a moral compass. He’ll worry about that later.

He keeps his speed to just under the posted speed limit. No sense in wasting even more time being pulled over for going too fast. Not that there’s likely to be a cop all the way out here but being stopped isn’t part of his plan.

Plan B. Actually Plan A. He just played along with the others to make sure he has all the information he needs. The plan they came up with wasn’t bad.

This one is better.

This one doesn’t put anyone else at risk. Derek would hate that. 

He isn’t entirely sure who’s going to be more pissed at him for this. His father, Derek, or Scott. They’ll probably all be equal amounts of pissed. 

That’s fine. He’s prepared for it. He’s disappointed them all enough in the past. Just add this to the list of Ways Stiles Has Fucked Up.

It’s a long list.

This is nowhere near the worst thing he’s done. If he succeeds (and he will, because failure isn’t an option), it’ll go some way towards making up for the rest of it.

Probably.

At 4.14am, he pulls off the highway and onto a dirt road.

He parks the car where it’s hidden between two trees, cuts the engine and gets out. He’ll go the last half mile on foot. Arriving by car will attract attention and suspicion. Going on foot will avoid that, and give him more time to scope out the place.

He goes around to the trunk. Opens his weapons cases. Gears up.

A knife in each ankle holster. Two more on his hip. He screws the silencer onto his Glock before he holsters that too. Assault vest on. That holds the spare magazines and the stun grenades. He picks up his H&K. He’ll carry that in a ready position, keep the Glock as his backup weapon. Safety on. For now.

He carries out one last check.

Then he runs.

Steadily, because he needs to stay out of sight. Fuck knows what sort of security these guys have. They might already know he’s here. But if they don’t, he needs to do everything he can not to alert them to his presence.

And that means he has to move slowly, no matter how much he wants to sprint, shouting Derek’s name, into the compound.

Six minutes later, he’s hunkered down in a ditch on the opposite side of the tarmacked road, watching the guards through the scope on the Heckler.

His heart is beating out of his chest but he’s here.

He’s ready.

He goes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, that was an awful cliffhanger to leave you on, I'm so sorry. I /promise/ the next update is coming on Wednesday as planned. In the meantime, I'm just going to be over here with my fingers in my ears so I can pretend I can't hear you all yelling at me.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another 2 chapters this time - partly because they're short and partly because this one ends on another cliffhanger XD
> 
> If you've read this far, you probably already know what's coming but just a little reminder to check the tags. Stiles will do whatever it takes to get his Derek back and I, as the writer, let him.
> 
> Enjoy some BAMF!Stiles :D

Stiles is right with his assumption that 4.30 is a good time to go in because circadian rhythms and an overnight shift mean that the guards are slower and more distracted.

The first two go down easy. They’re in the gate room, both staring at a small screen instead of watching the area around them.

Stiles takes full advantage of it.

He’s able to creep up on them. They don’t have time to react when he opens the door and fires. Two single shots to the head. One each. 

Two guards down. Fourteen to go.

He moves on.

He runs across the parking lot and ducks to the side of the main entrance door. No sign of movement around him so he carefully peers through a small gap, using the heavy door as a shield.

It leads, as he knew it would, to a small hallway. 

Empty.

He ducks inside.

Armoury on the left. He tries the door. Locked. That doesn’t mean there’s no one in there, just that he can’t get in to check.

No sense wasting time.

Move on.

Office, next. Empty. 

_Fuck._

He was hoping to take out the leader next, before they can raise any sort of alarm, but that plan is out.

Never mind.

Locker room. Also empty.

On with the plan.

He pauses beside the door to the communal area, tucked into the corner and flicks the Heckler to _auto_. He has to be fast here. Prepared. He’s expecting four guards. There could be six. He’s only used two bullets so far.

Fine.

Go.

He pulls a stun grenade from his vest, cracks the door open and tosses it in.

A heartbeat.

In.

The guards are all stunned. Two are in the middle of the room, two are closer to the edge. None have their weapons raised.

He aims. Fires. Short bursts. 

Four guards are down. Six in total. Ten remaining.

He keeps his back to the edge of the area as he moves across and tucks himself to the side of the door. He’s lost the element of surprise. The other guards know he’s coming.

22 shots. Time to reload.

The nearly empty magazine goes into a pouch on his vest. New magazine goes into the gun. Another stun grenade comes out.

He tosses it through the door. 

Waits for a heartbeat again.

Go.

It’s bought him a few precious seconds but he’ll be an easy target in the enclosed corridor. 

He kicks the door open. Fires. Ducks back. 

This time, he’s under fire. They can’t see him but one gets off a lucky shot that grazes his shoulder. He barely notices.

He fires again. Ducks back.

Repeat.

Silence.

He goes into the corridor, cautiously but quickly. Four guards are down. Ten in total. Six remaining.

Good.

Keep going.

He reloads as he jogs to the opposite end of the corridor.

Luck is on his side. The door opens as he gets to it. The guard is fast.

Stiles is faster.

Oblivious of the pain in his shoulder, he pulls the guard into a chokehold. That gives him a shield. He pushes the guard through the door.

No answering fire.

Good.

He shoots.

15 shots. Three dead guards. 13 in total. Three remaining, including the one he’s still using as a shield.

He drops the still-living guard to the floor where he lands in a heap, clutching his throat. Stiles ignores him and drags one of the dead bodies in front of the door. It won’t stop anyone coming through the door but it’ll slow them down enough to give him some advance warning.

Good. He’s bought himself some time. Maybe only a minute or so, but it’s enough. He doesn’t need long.

He puts down the gun, safely out of reach of the guard, and pulls out a knife from his ankle holster.

“Where is Derek Hale?” he asks, crouching beside the guard. The name tag reads _Adams._

“Fuck. You,” Adams says hoarsely.

Stiles digs the knife deeply into his thigh, close to the femoral artery. Adams screams. Stiles ignores him. “Where is Derek Hale?”

“Fuck. You,” Adams croaks again.

“If I turn this knife 90 degrees,” Stiles says, twisting the knife, “it’s going straight through your femoral artery. You’ll bleed out in under a minute. So let’s try this again. Where is Derek Hale?”

Adams stays silent.

Stiles twists the knife further.

“Ok! Ok!” Adams screams. “Third door.”

Stiles pulls the knife out. “Keys?”

“In the - in the desk. Bottom drawer.”

“You lying to me?”

“No, no, I swear.”

Stiles nods. He puts his knife away and stands up. He picks up his gun and keeps it trained on Adams as he goes over to the desk and rummages in the bottom drawer for the keys.

“Which key?” he says, holding up a bunch of identical looking keys. 

Adams is too busy clutching his leg to look so Stiles goes over and shoves them under his nose. 

“Which key?” he repeats.

“The one - it has a - the one with the notch in it.”

Stiles looks closely and identifies the right key. He keeps the gun pointed at Adams and goes over to the door. There’s a small observation window that he peers through.

Derek is there.

No time for relief or worry. 

He tries the key in the lock and it turns.

Good.

He goes back to Adams and shoves his thumb into the knife wound on his thigh. “Who else is here?”

“I don’t -”

Stiles presses harder. “Prisoners. Are there any more here?”

Adams screams. “No! No, there’s - there’s just him. Just the wolf.”

“His name is Derek Hale.”

“Sorry, sorry, please don’t -” Adams pants. “Don’t hurt me.”

“Fuck you,” Stiles says. He pulls his thumb out, stands up and presses the muzzle of the gun to Adams’ forehead.

He fires.

Another guard down. 15 in total. 2 remaining. He has 14 shots left.

He reloads. Just in case.

Takes a deep breath.

Opens the door.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aren't you glad I didn't leave you on that cliffhanger on the last update ;)
> 
> Fun fact about this scene number 1 - it's the first action scene I've ever written.
> 
> Fun fact about this scene number 2 - my long suffering husband who is former military, and a weapons expert, helped me plan it all out, complete with using place mats and coasters on the table, and then a full demonstration where he ran round the house. The guns and number of shots used are all accurate and I know now more about small machine guns than I ever needed to. So if you're wondering how realistic this is, the answer is "very". Honestly, I'm just glad it's on his google search history and not mine XD


	12. Chapter 12

Derek can hear someone coming. The walls to his cell are supposedly soundproofed (and probably are, to human ears) but that doesn’t stop him from hearing the muffled crack of gunshots. 

Someone’s coming.

Braeden, maybe.

Or Argent.

He doesn’t let himself hope, though. He’s heard gunshots before and no one came for him.

That was a while ago. He doesn’t know how long. Time passes strangely here. He can’t see the outside; can barely feel the pull of the moon. It could have been days. It could have been months. He has no idea.

He pulls against the chains that hold him to the metal table but it’s useless. Electricity runs through the chains and into the table. It stops him from turning. 

It hurts.

They hadn’t bothered at first and he’d snapped the chains they tried to hold him with. He’d only gotten away with it once. 

Now it’s the electricity.

All day.

Every day.

Relentless.

He’s too tired, too injured, in too much pain to even snark at the guards when they come in to bring him food or water or take him to the other room.

He’s too tired to fight.

He inhales deeply, tries to catch a scent.

There is one.

Familiar.

Safe.

Someone he knows but hasn’t seen for a long time.

“Mom?” he whispers but he knows that’s wrong. She’s - But maybe he’s dying, maybe that’s why she’s here.

He inhales again.

No. Not Mom.

_ Stiles.  _

Stiles, who Derek has been looking for for six years. Ever since he got back from visiting Cora, only to be told that Stiles had left. He tried calling but Stiles never answered. So Derek started to look for him.

The trail ran cold six months later.

Every trace of Stiles Stilinski was gone.

He’s a ghost.

It hasn’t stopped Derek from searching. 

And searching.

And searching.

In the desperate hope that Stiles is still alive somewhere and has just disappeared very effectively. 

He breathes again.

It’s definitely Stiles’ scent and he’s definitely very much alive. He’s closer now. 

Derek’s heart rate picks up.

No.

Stiles shouldn’t be here.

Stiles is _out._

Stiles is never coming back.

Stiles is taking a huge risk. He’s going to get himself killed. He has no idea what he’s facing here. He won’t be able to handle it.

Derek struggles harder against the chains. Against the electricity.

And then the door opens.

*

Stiles strides across to Derek and crouches down to him, his voice soft, impossibly soft, as he says, “hey.”

“Stiles,” Derek says weakly, his voice strained as yet another electrical current runs through him. “You -”

“No time. Gotta get you outta here.” Stiles reaches for the chains.

“Stop!”

Stiles stops.

“Electricity. Don’t - don’t touch -”

Stiles nods and straightens up. He has no idea where to turn off the power and has no intention of wasting time working it out.

There’s a box in the corner with cables coming out of it.

He shoots it.

It erupts in a fire of sparks.

Derek sags with relief as the electricity stops.

“Better?” Stiles says and starts undoing the chains, studying Derek as he does so.

He’s naked. Shivering. Covered in bruises and cuts in various stages of healing. Normal healing. Normal, human healing. The electricity must have prevented the werewolf healing from kicking in.

Stiles feels sick. They must have had him like this for a long time if he hasn’t healed.

No time for thinking about that now.

They still have to get out.

He drops the last chain to the floor with a clatter. “Can you walk?”

Derek nods but wobbles as he sits up and Stiles doubts whether Derek is going to be able to get out of here under his own steam.

“What about shifting? Can you shift? I know I’ve put on some muscle but I’m gonna struggle to carry you all the way outta here, big guy.”

“I can shift,” Derek says. He’s feeling stronger with each second that passes. Life floods back into him. He hops off the metal table and shifts into his half wolf form to prove his point.

Stiles nods. “Gotta be fast. There are two left. Next shift won’t arrive for almost an hour.”

“Two what left?”

“Guards.”

Derek goes outside and sees the four bodies on the floor. He turns back to Stiles with his eyebrows raised. “You did this?”

Stiles shrugs. “Yeah.”

“Alone? You did this alone?”

“Yes.”

Derek laughs softly and shakes his head. “Ok. You know the way out of here?”

“Yes, Derek, I know the way out of here because I got in here. Can you hear anyone?”

Derek listens and shakes his head.

“Good. Stick behind me.” Stiles starts to move the body from in front of the door but Derek sees what he’s doing and does it for him.

“You should be behind me.”

“We don’t have time for this bullshit. I need space to shoot. I can’t do that with you in front of me. Get behind me.” Stiles doesn’t wait for Derek to agree before he cautiously opens the door and points his gun down the corridor.

There’s no sign of anyone but that doesn’t mean that someone won’t come through the door at any moment. 

He sticks close to the wall and gestures for Derek to do the same.

Derek follows him.

Halfway along the corridor, he grabs Stiles by the sleeve.

“Two,” he whispered. “Two heartbeats. Close.”

Stiles nods. “Wolf out. They’ll be aiming for your centre mass. If you’re lower, they’ll miss you. Stay behind me.”

Derek gives him a look but doesn’t argue. He shifts into his full wolf form and sticks close behind Stiles.

Stiles moves fast. The remaining guards might know he’s here but they don’t know he’s coming through the door  _ right this second. _

He bursts through the door.

Fires.

Another guard down.

15 in total. One left.

He turns and is about to fire again when he stops.

Derek has the other guard on the floor, his jaws around the guard’s throat. As Stiles watches, he bites down and  _ tears.  _

16 guards down.

They’re free and clear.

“Still like tearing people’s throats out with your teeth, huh, buddy?” Stiles says, grinning.

Derek turns to him and grins in return, his jaws dripping with blood. The smell fills his nostrils. It will for weeks. 

Worth it.

The guard he just killed was the leader. The boss. The worst.

Derek has no regrets.

“Ok, we’ve gotta get outta here,” Stiles says. He keeps his gun raised and checks to make sure Derek is following him.

He is.

Stiles doesn’t expect any surprises but he’s learned to be cautious. Someone might be early for their shift. Someone might have raised the alarm. There could be hordes of hunters descending on them.

The office and locker room doors are open, just as Stiles had left them a few minutes ago. Now the armoury is open, too. He checks inside. Empty. The two guards they just killed must have been hiding out in there.

He leads the way through the main doors, his heart in his mouth in case there’s something else, some unseen force preventing Derek from leaving.

There isn’t.

They cross the parking lot with Derek still on Stiles’ heels. 

On the road, Stiles pauses to check his phone. Nine and a half minutes have passed since he killed the first two guards on the gate. Not bad going. He taps out a message to his father  _ (Got Derek. Coming back.)  _ and hits send, though his phone is low on cell service so he doubts it’ll go through. He’ll check later. He puts his phone away.

“Ok,” he says, pointing in the direction of his car. “I’m parked down there. We’re gonna run. I couldn’t do anything about the sound emitters. Howl if it gets too much, ok?”

Derek nods his understanding and takes off down the road at a gentle lope that Stiles can keep up with.

Stiles follows him, his gun still drawn. Just in case there are any surprises.

There aren’t.

They get back to the car at 4.46. 32 minutes have passed since Stiles parked it. The engine block is still warm.

He pops the trunk and goes through his bag until he finds a loose t-shirt and a baggy pair of sweatpants.

“Here,” he says, passing them to Derek. “They won’t fit properly but better than nothing.”

Derek shifts back to his human form and starts to get dressed.

Stiles turns his back and puts away his weapons. All except his Glock. That’s staying on his hip until they’re back at the bunker.

Once everything is stashed in its usual place, he closes the trunk.

“Good to go?”

Derek nods. He looks tense. Strained.

“Emitters bugging you?”

Derek nods again. “It’s not so bad. Not after -”

“Ok,” Stiles says briskly. He can only guess what Derek’s been through. He can’t change any of that, but he can change what’s happening right this second. “Get in. We’ll be away from them soon.”

He checks his phone when they’re both in the car. The text still hasn’t sent. He passes the phone to Derek.

“Can you keep trying to send that, please?”

Derek does.

Stiles drives.

They don’t talk.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> There! Finally, Derek is safe!


	13. Chapter 13

“What do you mean we don’t need to go anywhere?” Peter snaps.

Noah holds up his phone. “Got Derek. Coming back,” he says for the benefit of everyone who can’t see the text on his screen.

Scott lights up. “He did it? Stiles really did it?”

“Yeah. Yeah, he did,” Noah says gruffly.

The mood in the bunker is palpably lighter after that. 

Braeden says she’s going to go, she’ll catch up with Derek another day, once he’s had a chance to recover from his ordeal. Scott tries to persuade her to stay but she’s resolute. They might have parted on good terms but she’s still Derek’s ex and he can probably do without seeing her after everything he’s been through.

Malia follows her, muttering something about disturbed sleep, early mornings, and stupid cousins who get themselves kidnapped.

Peter crosses his arms and announces that he isn’t going anywhere, he wants to see his nephew. Everyone ignores him because they know that anyway.

Chris makes himself scarce. He might be a part of the pack but he isn’t needed for this. He would leave but it’s his bunker so he can’t really do that. So he sits in front of the security camera footage and watches for Stiles’ car to arrive.

When it does, he buzzes the door open.

*

“Wait there,” Stiles says when he switches the engine off. He doesn’t wait for Derek to answer before he jumps out of the car and runs a quick perimeter check. 

They haven’t been followed, he made sure of that, but it isn’t beyond the realms of possibility that someone might be lying in wait for them here.

“All clear,” he says and opens Derek’s door.

Derek gets out. He’s still tired - exhausted, actually - but his injuries have healed and he’s _free._

“You ready for this?” Stiles asks. “They’re gonna be all over you.”

“Yes.” Derek isn’t, actually, but he can’t complain. “How long have I been -”

“28 days.”

“Fuck.”

Stiles laughs softly. “Yeah. C’mon.”

He leads the way into the bunker and he’s barely made it through the door before he’s enveloped in a hug.

“You’re grounded. For life,” Noah mumbles into Stiles’ hair.

“Dad -”

“Don’t _Dad_ me. Grounded. You hear me.”

“For life. Got it.”

Noah squeezes him tightly. “You did good, kid.”

“I know.”

Derek doesn’t make it much further before Scott throws himself at him.

“You’re ok. You’re really ok,” he says, hugging Derek tightly. “I can’t believe it. You’re really back.”

Derek pats his back awkwardly. Scott is his alpha. He can’t push him away. Being welcomed back with open arms is nice but it’s _too much._ He extricates himself as soon as it’s polite to do so.

“Nephew,” Peter says with an air of nonchalance that Derek knows is false.

“Peter,” Derek says with a nod.

“How are you?”

“In one piece. Thanks to Stiles.”

Stiles has only just managed to wriggle out of his father’s grip when Scott bounds over and he’s being hugged once again.

“You’re the best,” Scott says. “I’m so glad I called you.”

“Yeah,” Stiles says, sounding strangled, “can you - can you loosen up a bit, Scotty? Still human here, remember?”

“Sorry, sorry.” Scott loosens his grip but doesn’t let go.

“They’re all dead,” Stiles says. “I know you asked me not to but I couldn’t -”

“It’s ok,” Scott says. 

Stiles knows it isn’t really but he doesn’t want to argue about it now so he just brings his arms up and wraps them around Scott. He’s missed his friend.

While they’re doing that, Peter gives in and hugs Derek. Only briefly and there’s a lot of back slapping, but it’s a hug. “If anyone,” he says when he lets go, glaring around the room at everyone, “breathes a word about this little display of emotion, I will kill you. Slowly and horribly.”

Scott laughs softly. “Noted. None of us will say anything. Promise.”

“Good,” Peter says.

Meanwhile, Noah has been making coffee for everyone. 

Chris helps him carry the mugs. He squeezes Derek’s shoulder and smiles, gives him a nod.

Stiles grabs a mug of coffee and retreats to a corner. He’s not _staying,_ he’s not getting drawn into this. They don’t need him. They don’t need this fucked up version of him. He can’t be a part of Scott’s pack. 

He would walk away but he’s not leaving without Derek.

Not again.

Not unless Derek says no.

He sips his coffee and watches as Derek is surrounded by his pack, all hugs and smiles. Derek’s are fake. Stiles can see it in his eyes. There isn’t much he can do to help Derek, though. The pack needs this. Stiles won’t intervene.

Besides, he needs a few minutes. He’s killed 16 people today. Derek is safe and the ends very much justify the means but he’s still killed 16 people and he could really do with a little time to shake that off.

And the adrenaline has worn off so now his shoulder is screaming at him, reminding him that he _got shot_ today. It’s not the first time, he can handle it but it hurts. A lot.

So he turns away and heads deeper into the bunker where he’s fairly sure Chris keeps a first aid kit or two.

*

Derek is surrounded. There are too many voices, too many touches. It’s all _too much._ He’s tired and thirsty, hungry and drained. He’s been locked up in one room for a month. His senses are in overload. 

The questions won’t stop.

Scott asks if he’s ok. (No.) Then if he needs anything. (Also no.) 

Then Chris asks what Derek can tell them. (Nothing useful.)

Peter asks if they hurt him. How is Derek even supposed to answer that? He can’t. Not honestly, anyway. How can he explain that in between what can only be described as torture sessions, he was chained to a table with electrical current flowing through his body for _twenty eight days?_

He can’t explain that.

Not to them.

It’s Noah who herds the others away in the end.

Finally, Derek gets a chance to breathe.

He managed to do some processing while he was in the car - the blessedly quiet car - with Stiles, but the whole 28 days thing is taking some time to sink in. He’s been gone for a month. A whole month. He has no idea what day it is, what time it is, nothing. He’s...lost.

The more lost he is, the more he tries to process what’s happened to him, the more he struggles for control.

_Alpha. Beta. Omega. Repeat._

The mantra calms him but he’s still on the ragged edge. 

“Where’s my car?” he says abruptly, the problem of what had happened to it after he was taken giving him something else to focus on.

“Uh -” Noah says, glancing at Peter.

Peter rolls his eyes dramatically. “Totalled. They set fire to it. Nothing left.”

“It’s all gone?”

“Up in smoke.”

Derek grimaces but otherwise doesn’t show exactly how _fucked up_ he is by that. His whole _life_ had been in that car. Well, not his _whole_ life, he’d kept the loft so he still has a lot of stuff there, but he’s been on the road for six years and his car was his home.

Then everyone is crowding him again.

Derek doesn’t blame them. They just want to be reassured, to fuss over him.

Except Stiles. Stiles is letting him just _be._ He drove them back here without a word. Like he understands.

His eyes roam the room, searching for the only face he wants to see right now.

He doesn’t find it.

“Where is Stiles?”


	14. Chapter 14

There’s a short moment of panic which makes Derek’s heart seize in his chest because no one knows where Stiles is.

Has he left again? Has he snuck out without a word and left again?

“No,” Chris says, staring at the security footage on the screen. “His car’s still here.”

Derek breathes again.

They find Stiles less than a minute later. The bunker is big but there aren’t many places to hide.

He’s in a small bunkroom, sitting on the edge of a fold away cot. His shirt is off and he’s busily stitching up a nasty looking gash on his left shoulder. He doesn’t even flinch when he pushes the needle through his skin.

Derek isn’t sure whether to be horrified or impressed. Mostly his heart sinks. Stiles got hurt. Stiles got hurt saving him.

He isn’t worth that.

Peter’s impressed. He watches Stiles, head tilted to one side, fascinated.

At least he does until Noah rushes forwards and plucks the needle (carefully) out of Stiles’ hand. “Son, no. We’ve got doctors for that. Let me take you to the hospital.”

“No,” Stiles says. “I’m fine. I can manage.”

“You don’t have to  _ manage.”  _

“Dad, stop fussing. I’ll get this done in less time than it takes to drive to the hospital.”

_ “Fussing?  _ You think this is  _ fussing?!  _ You’ve been  _ shot,  _ Stiles. That requires medical treatment.”

“It’s a graze. The bullet didn’t even go through, just took a chunk out of my shoulder.”

“Which you can’t stitch yourself because you can barely reach it!”

Stiles is about to say something else when Scott interrupts. “Seriously, dude, have you forgotten that Mom’s a nurse? Just wait ten minutes. I’ll call her, she can come here.”

Stiles refrains from rolling his eyes. Just. “I’m fine, Scott. Really.”

“I have some medic training, Stiles,” Chris says. “I can fix you up.”

Stiles considers that for a moment. “Ok. Thanks.”

Chris nods at him. “Ok, everyone out.”

“Stiles, I can take your pain,” Scott says softly, holding out his hand.

Stiles shakes his head. “I’m good. Thanks, though.”

Scott looks hurt but he leaves. Everyone else files out behind him, except for Noah.

“That’s my  _ son,  _ Argent. Everyone else can get out but I’m damn well staying,” he says.

“Dad, no,” Stiles says. “You don’t need to watch this. Go take care of Derek. He’s the victim here.”

Noah runs his hand across his face. Stiles has a point. He doesn’t like it but it’s a fair point. “Ok. I’ll go make sure Derek’s ok but you’ve got five minutes and then I’m coming to check on you.”

“I’ll be finished in three,” Chris promises.

“Two and a half if you let me finish this one,” Stiles says.

Noah rolls his eyes and walks away.

Stiles finishes tying the knot.

“I’ve gotta admit,” Chris says as he puts the next stitch in, “I had my doubts. But you proved me wrong. You proved us all wrong.”

Stiles doesn’t so much as wince, despite the lack of local anaesthetic or werewolf pain drain. “Yeah. I mean, I did  _ tell  _ you I could do it but no one was listening.”

“We’ll listen next time.”

“Next time? I’m really hoping I don’t get another call like that.”

Chris nods. “If you want to come back…”

“Scott won’t have me back. Not now he knows who I am.”

“He will. In a shot.” Chris looks entirely too pleased with himself for that pun.

“You think?” Stiles says. He doubts it. He really doubts it.

“Yes. He’s never going to be happy about killing people but he needs someone around who’ll do it when they have to.”

“He has Peter. Derek. Malia. Theo. Braeden. He doesn’t need me.”

“He’s missed you. He hasn’t been the same since…”

_ Since I left.  _ Stiles’ throat works hard to swallow the sudden lump that rises. “I don’t belong here,” he says quietly.

“Your call,” Chris says. “But talk to him before you go again.”

“I will.”

Chris smiles. “Ok. Stitches all done.” He tapes a dressing over the wound. “You’re good to go.”

Stiles nods and stands up. “Thanks for patching me up.”

“Don’t mention it,” Chris says and tosses Stiles a spare shirt so he has something to wear which isn’t covered in the blood that none of them had noticed. “Thanks for coming to help.”

Stiles nods again, pulls on the borrowed shirt and heads back out into the main room. He will talk to Scott. But there’s someone else he needs to talk to first.

“Derek, can we - can I talk to you? In private?” he says.


	15. Chapter 15

They go back to the room Stiles just left. It smells of antiseptic and blood. Stiles’ blood. Derek doesn’t know how he missed it before. Or why Stiles didn’t say anything.

He wants to be annoyed because Stiles has been a  _ fucking idiot  _ but he can’t be. Because Stiles is here. He’s (mostly) unharmed and he’s  _ here.  _ He’s safe. He saved Derek and got hurt in the process but he’s  _ here.  _

More than a minute passes with them staring at each other before six years of fear and longing bubble up and Derek can’t take it anymore. 

He closes the few feet between them and pulls Stiles into an embrace.

Stiles makes a surprised sound but he brings his arms up to wrap them around Derek’s back, gently patting him. “Ok, good hug, buddy, thanks.”

Derek takes that as his cue and lets go of Stiles, takes a step back. “Sorry.”

“No, don’t be, it was - I wasn’t complaining.”

Derek nods.

Stiles runs his hands through his hair and puffs his cheeks out. “Look, I - I need to say something, ask you something but the timing - it’s crap, Derek, and I’m sorry, but I need - I need to know.”

“It’s ok, Stiles. Ask.”

Stiles nods. Takes a deep breath. Starts. Stops again. Takes another deep breath. He’d prefer to be facing an entire prison full of guards again rather than having this conversation. But he needs to know.

“I thought -” he says, clears his throat and tries again. “I thought we had something. Back then. Was I wrong?”

Derek smiles. “You weren’t wrong.”

Some of the tension seeps out of Stiles’ shoulders. “I wasn’t?” he asks, barely able to disguise the hope in his voice.

“Nope.”

Stiles nods. “Thanks, that’s - that’s good to know.”

“That’s what you wanted to ask?”

“Yes. No. I don’t - the timing’s bad. Again.”

Derek nods. “We never had good timing, did we?”

Stiles smiles wryly. “No, we really didn’t.”

“I looked for you,” Derek says quietly, hesitantly.

“You - really?”

“Yes. Six years. From when I got back from visiting Cora and found you’d left, to when the hunters took me. I never stopped. I never would have stopped.”

Stiles is fairly convinced he’s stopped breathing completely. He doesn’t know whether to feel guilty or hopeful or terrified or excited or - “Montana,” he blurts out. “I live in Montana. I haven’t been there for all of those six years but that’s where I live now, when I’m not on a mission.”

“Mission?”

“Uh - yeah. CIA. Black ops.”

Derek raises his eyebrows. “Black ops?”

“Yes, yeah, black ops.”

“So that’s how -”

“How I was able to bust into a prison filled with heavily armed guards and get you out? Yeah.”

“Thank you. Without you, I would’ve been -”

“Yeah, I know.”

Derek shakes his head, trying to clear the terrible, awful memories; the thoughts of what might have happened if it hadn’t been for Stiles. “Tell me about Montana.”

Stiles nods. “I have a cabin, a few miles east of Bozeman. It’s...quiet. No one around for a mile. On the side of a mountain, surrounded by forest, half a mile from the closest road. A shit ton of security because I’m still an anxious paranoid bastard. So yeah. Quiet. Safe.”

“Sounds pretty great,” Derek says quietly.

“It is. I like it. The missions can get pretty intense so I like the quiet. I hike, run, watch Netflix, spend a lot of quality time with my punching bag.”

Derek laughs softly. “You’ve changed.”

“Yeah, I have.”

“In a good way.”

“Thanks.” Stiles isn’t convinced about that but what the hell, this is his life now. He  _ has  _ changed. In some ways he’s better. In some way he’s not. He tries not to think about that too much. It’s too big. Too painful.

Derek hesitates, unsure how to ask what he wants to ask. “How big is this cabin?”

“It’s pretty small but it’s enough, y’know?”

“It’s really safe?”

Stiles nods. “As houses,” he quips.

“Space for a fucked up werewolf?”

“Wh - uh -”

Derek turns away. He shouldn’t have said that. It’s too much, too soon, bad timing. But he can’t take it back. He doesn’t  _ want  _ to take it back.

“Yes!” Stiles blurts out. “Yeah, that’s - I don’t -  _ fuck.”  _ He takes a deep breath, steps closer to Derek. “I should never have left you behind. I should never have left at all, but especially not you. I don’t want to leave you again. So if you want to, there’s space for you. There’s only one bed but I can sleep on the couch, I don’t sleep much anyway, it won’t bother me. But I’m not coming back, Derek. I can’t. You need to know that. I can’t come back.”

“I don’t want to stay. I’ve spent six years searching for you, Stiles. I’m a mess. I wasn’t doing too well before they took me and now… Your place sounds perfect.”

“It is. It’ll be - you’ll have space to run, time to recover, I won’t - there’s no pressure, for anything, I just don’t want to leave you behind again.”

“So don’t,” Derek says quietly. “Take me with you.”

“I won’t. I will, I mean. Come with me.”

Derek nods.

*

“Derek,” Scott says quietly when Stiles and Derek emerge from the bunk room. “I owe you an apology.”

Derek looks at him and raises his eyebrows. “For what?”

“I should have kept you safe. I’m your alpha and I let you down and I’m sorry for that.”

“That wasn’t your fault, Scott.”

“It feels like it.”

Derek nods. “Apology accepted. Even though I think it’s unnecessary.”

“And I’m sorry for not calling Stiles sooner. If I’d known what he can do…”

Stiles shrugs. “I was on a mission until a few hours before you called me, I wouldn’t have picked up anyway.”

“I’m still sorry,” Scott says.

“Thank you,” Derek says quietly.

“And I want you to know that we tried. All the security they have there, none of the wolves could get through, not even me and -”

“Me,” Peter interrupts. “It even stopped  _ me.  _ They know what they’re doing.”

“Thank you, Peter,” Chris says. “That wasn’t the point Scott was making. We just want Derek to know that we tried to get to him. We didn’t forget about him.”

Derek gulps down the emotions that threaten to spill over and nods. “Thank you,” he says again. He means it. It’s good - really fucking good - to know that they tried. “I heard you, I think. You got in, right?”

Chris nods. “Braeden and I managed to get in. We got out the other people they were holding but where you were...we couldn’t get to you.”

“I heard. Gunshots. The room was supposed to be soundproofed but not werewolf soundproofed. I thought - I hoped -”

“I’m sorry too,” Chris says gently. “I wish we could have gotten to you but we were outmanned, outgunned and outta time.”

“It’s ok,” Derek says, and glances at Stiles with a little smile on his lips. “Stiles got to me.”

Scott smiles broadly. “Yeah he did. You’re fucking awesome, dude.”

Stiles shrugs. He isn’t so convinced about that. “I mean, I’ve been trained for this shit.”

“I know you’re out, but if you - if you ever want back in…” Scott trails off.

Stiles has forgotten how to breathe again. “I don’t -” he says, sounding strangled. 

“No, I know, it’s ok. I’m just saying that there’s a place for you here. In the pack. With me. Us. If you want it.”

Stiles looks around. At his father, who looks hopeful. At Scott who looks like a puppy whose owner is holding a high value treat that he really,  _ really  _ wants. At Peter who’s rolling his eyes for what seems to be the millionth time in the past 24 hours. At Chris who’s looking back at Stiles with warning in his eyes.  _ Don’t hurt him,  _ Chris’ expression says. At Derek, who doesn’t want to stay either.

“Uh,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck. “Is there - is there room for a compromise?”

“Yes,” Scott says straight away.

“Can I come back but from a distance? Stay in Montana, come when I’m needed?”

“You don’t want to come home, son?” Noah asks.

Stiles shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Dad, I know you want me to, but I like it where I am. I need that distance. I’m not ready to come back. Maybe one day.”

Noah nods. It’s more than he hoped for, really. “Promise me you’ll answer your phone sometimes?”

“Every week,” Stiles promises. “I’ll even call you too.”

Noah laughs softly. “Good kid.”

“Montana?” Scott asks. “What’s in Montana?”

“A cabin in the forest. Home.”

“You’ll really come back if we need you?”

“Every time.”

Scott grins and bundles Stiles up in another one of his speciality tackle hugs. “Welcome back.”

“Thanks, dude,” Stiles says, hugging Scott in return. “You sure you want me?”

“Yes!”

“Even though I’ve -”

“Killed people? Yes. You know I’m never going to be ok with that but sometimes it’s necessary and I need you around to remind me of that.”

Stiles pats Scott on the back and extricates himself. “I’ll be around,” he promises. “Every time you need me.”

“Thanks,” Scott says quietly. “I missed you.”

“I missed you too. I’m sorry I left. Well, I’m not, because I had my reasons and they were good reasons, but I’m sorry that I hurt you in the process.”

“It’s ok. You did what you had to do. I’m just glad you’re ok.” Scott goes in for another hug but stops when Derek clears his throat.

“I’m going with Stiles,” he says.

“You’re going with Stiles?” Scott says, shaking his head and smiling. Derek can see the moment the proverbial penny drops. “Oh! Ohhhhh. Ok.”

Derek laughs softly. “Yeah? We have your approval?”

“Yes, of course you d- And you were joking. Sorry. I’m happy for you. Both of you,” Scott says.

“Thanks,” Stiles says, blushing in a way he’s fairly sure he hasn’t done since he was 16 and embarrassed about pretty much everything. He thinks he should probably explain that it isn’t  _ like that,  _ that he’d very much  _ like  _ it to be  _ like that  _ but that it  _ isn’t  _ like that. Yet.

“I think that’s a good idea,” Peter says, surprising everyone.

“You - you do?” Derek says.

“Mmm. See, Stiles has taken out a third of the prison operation but that means that two thirds will be out for blood in a very literal way. We need to take them down before they can hurt anyone else.”

“Yeah,” Scott says wearily. “That should be our next mission.”

“We’ll get on it,” Chris says. 

Peter nods. “And in the meantime, I think Derek is the most at risk because he’s escaped once before. They might know Stiles’ face too. It’s better that they’re both out of the way.”

“That’s a good point,” Noah says, though he sounds like he’d prefer  _ not  _ to be agreeing with Peter.

“And Derek needs time off from pack business and everything else he’s been doing for the last six years. He needs to rest and recover,” Peter goes on, “and being out of town is going to help with that.”

Derek shoots him a look, half surprised, half grateful. 

“And a cabin in Montana sounds like a good place to recuperate, and Stiles will keep him safe. Won’t you Stiles?” There’s more than the hint of a threat in Peter’s voice and expression. 

Stiles nods. “Yeah, I will. Whatever it takes.”

“Good. So, that’s settled. Derek and Stiles are going back to Montana. Does anyone have any more questions?” Peter glares around the room.

No one answers.

Except Derek.

“Yes. I want to leave straight away, I can’t - I haven’t been around for a while anyway, I don’t want to say a whole bunch of emotional goodbyes. Can you let everyone know that I’m safe?”

“Of course, Nephew. And I’ll let Cora know where you are, shall I?”

Derek nods. “Thank you.”

“I’ll make sure the rest of the pack know too,” Scott says. “And that Stiles is back in. Sort of.”

“Thanks, Scotty,” Stiles says. “I’m still on the same number and I promise I’ll answer from now on. Let them know that, please.”

Scott nods. “I will.”

Stiles nods in return and turns towards Noah. “Dad, I’m sorry.”

Noah pulls him off to the side. “It’s ok, Stiles. You aren’t ready to come back. That’s ok.”

“No, I know, I meant - I’m sorry for leaving. I’m sorry for not staying in touch.”

“You did what you had to do. I understand that.”

“Thanks,” Stiles said, his voice choked around yet another lump in his throat.

“There’s a place here for you whenever you want it. Whether it’s a visit or for longer. It’s still your room.”

“But you - you call it the guest room.”

Noah laughs softly. “With my words, maybe. Not in my heart. It’s still Stiles’ bedroom.”

Stiles hugs him tightly. “Thanks, Dad. I’ll call, I promise. And I’ll visit.”

Noah pats his back. “You grew into a good man, Stiles. Don’t stay away too long, eh?”

Stiles abandons all hope of containing his emotions and sobs cathartically into his father’s shoulder. He needs to let out some of the crap from the last six years. Longer, even. He’s vaguely embarrassed about doing it in front of so many people, though, so he pulls away and runs the sleeve of his borrowed shirt over his eyes. 

He risks a glance around but no one’s looking. Chris and Scott are talking about how they’re going to take down the rest of the hunters who are running the prison. Peter and Derek are engaged in a conversation that requires a lot of dramatic sighing and eyerolling on Derek’s part so apparently Peter is being annoying. Which is his default anyway. It’s reassuring to know that even when so many things have changed, some things have stayed the same.

Derek catches his eye and smiles that smile that has always had the power to melt Stiles’ brain and take his breath away.

He goes over to Derek. “Want to hang around for a day or two? See people? Get some rest?”

“Not really. Unless you do?”

“Uh, no, no I’m good to go if you are.”

Peter rolls his eyes. “Stiles, take good care of my nephew, please. Now go. Both of you.”

Derek laughs softly. “Good to see you too, Uncle Peter.”

Peter rolls his eyes and flaps his hands, very literally shooing them out.

They say their goodbyes.

Then they’re gone.


	16. Chapter 16

They stop at the loft, first. Not for long, Derek doesn’t want to stay there. It isn’t home anymore. He doesn’t know where home  _ is  _ these days but it definitely isn’t the loft.

So he throws some clothes into a bag, then some personal possessions into a box. Books. The tiny handful of photos he has of his family. The disk carved with a triskelion. 

That’s it.

That’s his life.

One bag and a box.

It isn’t much.

“Good to go?” Stiles asks quietly and waits for Derek to nod before he grabs the bag and carries it down to his car.

They’ve barely spoken a word to each other since they left the bunker. Stiles asked if he was hungry (yes, but he can’t face food yet), thirsty (yes, Stiles gave him a bottle of water from the trunk), if he needed anything (probably but he doesn’t know what), then he fell silent.

Derek appreciates it. He appreciates the quiet. The space. Not physical space, Stiles has been right beside him the whole time, barely three feet from Derek’s right arm, but emotional space. No demands. No questions. Just a quiet, strong support.

An armed, quiet, strong support. Derek hasn’t missed the pistol that Stiles is still wearing on his hip and he doubts that’s the only weapon that he’s still carrying on his person.

He follows Stiles down to the car, puts his box on the backseat beside his bag, and gets in.

He’s fast asleep in the passenger seat before they’ve even gone five miles.

He’s with Stiles.

He’s safe with Stiles.

*

Stiles lets him sleep. He gently nudges Derek awake each time they stop for a comfort break, and coaxes him to eat a protein bar that isn’t enough food but will keep Derek going until he’s ready to eat again.

They don’t stop for dinner, Stiles goes into a drive-thru and eats while he drives.

He briefly contemplates stopping at a motel somewhere along the route and grabbing a couple of hours sleep but he quickly rejects the idea. He can’t easily defend a motel room. And there’s the whole traumatised werewolf angle to consider. He doesn’t particularly want to be explaining a trashed motel room if Derek loses control. So he pulls over for a rest stop, pops an Adderall and chases it with a triple espresso. That should keep him sharp enough.

It does.

18 and a half hours after they left Beacon Hills, he turns onto the track that leads up to his cabin.

“Hey,” he says, tapping lightly on Derek’s thigh. “We’re here.”

“What time is it?” Derek mumbles, blearily blinking awake.

“2.30.”

“AM?”

“Yeah.”

Derek groans and shifts in his seat as Stiles parks outside a little cabin. “You drove straight through?”

Stiles nods and pulls on the parking brake. “This place is safer than a motel room. And you were asleep. Didn’t want to disturb you.”

“Thanks.”

Stiles smiles and gets out of the car. There are no tyre tracks except his own, no footprints in the mud. His hand rests on the Glock as he scans the pool of light for any sign of movement. 

Nothing. 

Good.

He grabs his bag and weapons cases from the trunk, waits while Derek collects his bag and box, and leads the way over to the little cabin. 

“What are you doing?” Derek asks when Stiles crouches in front of the door.

“Checking,” Stiles says, pulling the small piece of foil from the door jamb. He holds it up to show Derek.

“Foil in the door? Really?”

“It’s effective. Door hasn’t been opened since I left. Means I don’t have to go in with my weapon drawn.”

Derek nods slowly. Apparently the last six years haven’t been kind to Stiles if he’s resorting to tricks like that.

Stiles stands up and opens the door. He silences the alarm and flicks the lights on, then quickly stows his weapons cases in the closet-slash-armoury and switches on the heat.

Derek follows him inside.

The cabin is small and basic but cosy enough. It’s all open plan. There’s a bed against the wall opposite the door, clearly placed to give Stiles maximum time to react if someone unexpected comes in. Beside it is a closet and a dresser, then a small couch and coffee table take up another wall. The open space is filled with a punching bag. There’s a kitchen area opposite a door which Derek presumes leads to the bathroom.

Home.

Or as close as he gets to it now.

“Are you gonna be ok if I lock the door?” Stiles asks. “I don’t want to lock you in, I mean, obviously I don’t want to lock you in, but -”

“It’s fine, Stiles. Lock the door.”

As much as Derek doesn’t particularly want to be locked in, it’ll be safer.

There’s a click as Stiles locks up, then a clink as he puts the keys down on the kitchen counter.

“I always keep them there,” he says. “So if you need them and I’m asleep or whatever, that’s where they are.”

Derek nods. “Ok. Thanks.”

“I’d say help yourself to any food or whatever but...there kinda isn’t any, I need to do a grocery run tomorrow. I got back from a mission the same night Scott called me so I didn’t - anyway, there’ll be food tomorrow. There are some snacks and stuff in the cupboard, beers in the fridge, so help yourself to anything you want.”

Derek nods again and puts down the bag and box he’s still carrying.

“I need to clear some space for you but can I - do you mind if I do that tomorrow, only I’m pretty beat and -”

“Stiles,” Derek says.

“Yes? Yep, what?”

“Shut up,” Derek says with a smile.

Stiles laughs softly. “Ok. Shutting up.”

“I’m pretty beat too.” He shouldn’t be, he’s slept for 16 or so of the last 18 and a half hours, but he still feels drained. “Can we just -”

“Sleep. Got it. Take the bed, I don’t mind the couch.”

“Are you sure?”

“I’m sure.”

Derek nods. “Thanks. Is it ok if I take a shower?”

“Go for it.”

Derek smiles, grabs his bag and disappears into the bathroom. It’s small but functional; old but clean. 

He strips out of Stiles’ clothes while he waits for the water to run hot, then drops them into the laundry hamper and steps under the shower. It’s blissful. He could probably spend the next six hours in here, washing away the stench (and maybe some of the memories) of the prison, but he’s conscious that Stiles probably wants a shower too so he tries not to take too long.

He doesn’t really succeed.

*

While Derek is in the shower, Stiles gets changed into a pair of sleep pants and a t-shirt, then stares at Netflix until Derek emerges in a waft of cedarwood scented steam, clad only in a pair of boxers.

Stiles lets out a loud gulp because no, nope, his brain cannot compute a mostly naked Derek Hale standing in his cabin.

It’s too much.

Way too much.

But he still manages to force a smile onto his lips.

“Better?” he says.

“Much.” Derek smiles back and goes over to the bed.

And then Stiles’ brain short circuits completely. He mumbles something incoherent and races into the bathroom where he sits on the side of the bath and hyperventilates.

Why is he like this? He’s a goddamned fucking  _ assassin,  _ he kills people before breakfast, he should not be so affected by, well, anything, but especially not someone he likes and cares about being in his cabin.

That’s probably why.

He’s spent six years pretending he doesn’t care about anyone or anything except the mission in front of him. He even managed to convince himself.

But now - 

Now - 

Now there’s Derek.

Derek who has spent those six years searching for him.

Derek who never gave up on him.

Derek who he left behind for so long.

Derek who needs Stiles to protect him and nurture him while he recovers.

Derek who really doesn’t need Stiles to be having a panic attack in the bathroom.

Luckily it isn’t a full blown panic attack. Stiles does some breathing exercises, takes a minute to get his thoughts together, then has a shower, careful to keep the dressing on his shoulder dry, puts his sleep clothes back on, and goes back out into the living room.

By then, Derek is safely tucked up under the covers which makes it easier. Still awkward, of course, because they really,  _ really  _ need to talk about whatever the fuck it is they’re doing here, but that’s a conversation that will have to wait until Derek has had some time to recover. 

Stiles sprawls out on the couch and pulls a blanket over himself. “G’night,” he says.

“Night,” Derek replies and switches off the lamp.

Stiles fidgets to get more comfortable.

Then he fidgets again.

And again.

After the tenth time, Derek turns the lamp back on.

“Stiles, this is ridiculous.”

“Hmm? What? What’s ridiculous?”

_ “This.  _ You sleeping on the couch.”

“Uh, ok? Why?”

“Because,” Derek says, sitting up, “you’re hurt. I’m fine. You shouldn’t be sleeping on the couch.”

“No, no, I’m fine, it doesn’t even hurt.”

“Stiles.”

“Derek.”

“You’re injured. You got shot today. Just come to bed.”

Stiles stares at him, his mouth hanging open. “What?”

Derek sighs dramatically and rolls his eyes. “It’s a big enough bed. We can share.”

“You’re sure?”

“Yes.”

Stiles tries not to think too hard about what he’s doing as he gets up and joins Derek in the bed.  _ His  _ bed. Derek is in  _ his  _ bed. 

It’s all perfectly normal. 

Completely normal.

Everything is fine.

Fortunately, they’re both tired enough that they’re asleep almost straight away.

They wake up wrapped around each other.

They don’t talk about it.

*

Stiles goes out for groceries the next morning. Derek stays behind. He isn’t happy about it. At all. But Stiles has a cover to maintain and he hasn’t worked out how to explain ‘looming guy who may or may not be my boyfriend’ to the handful of people around town who know him. Mitch. Who know  _ Mitch.  _ No one knows Stiles.

As soon as he gets back, Derek pounces on the food and immediately starts cooking. 

Stiles thinks they’re the best pancakes he’s ever eaten.

He thinks the same about the pasta Derek cooks that night.

They still don’t talk.


	17. Chapter 17

Derek wants to run.

He was trapped in that prison for a month. He needs to  _ move.  _ He needs to smell the trees and feel the earth beneath his paws.

The cabin is great. It’s cosy and Stiles is here and Derek isn’t particularly inclined to let Stiles out of his sight, but he’s starting to feel cooped up after several days inside.

Beating the crap out of the punchbag keeps him sane for another couple of days.

On the morning of the sixth day, he puts down the book he’s reading and sighs.

Stiles peers at him from behind his laptop. “What?”

“I need to run.”

Stiles stands up, already pulling on his running shoes. “So let’s go.”

_ “You  _ want to run?”

Stiles gives him an unimpressed look. “Yes, Derek, I want to run. There’s a good ten mile route from here. Will that be long enough? Or should we go for the eighteen mile route? I’ve gotta say I usually don’t bother, that’s for when I want to punish myself but I’m up for it if you are.”

Derek nods. “Sorry,” he says. “Sometimes I forget how much you’ve changed.”

“Yup, I’m not skinny, defenceless Stiles anymore.” To prove his point, Stiles straps a knife to his leg. He’ll leave the pistol behind. It’s next to useless amongst the trees anyway.

“I know you aren’t. Are you sure about this? Your shoulder…”

“It’s my shoulder, not my leg. I’m good.”

Derek nods, sheds his clothes, shifts into his wolf form, and pads out of the cabin behind Stiles.

Stiles sets off at a gruelling speed, his feet pounding the muddy track and sending splatters everywhere.

Derek follows him. It feels good to run and his four legs are faster than Stiles’ two so he quickly overtakes and races off into the distance, relishing his freedom.

Stiles watches him go and picks up his pace, running flat out now. He can’t keep up with Derek, he knows that, but he needs to push himself. Maybe if he runs fast enough, he can escape his thoughts.

He can’t.

He counts his steps. 117. Add 16. Repeat. Repeat again. And again.

Somewhere around mile four, he pulls up and stands still, doubled over, breathing hard.

Derek comes trotting back and stops in front of him. He tilts his head to one side in a silent question.

Stiles nods. “I’m fine. I’m good.”

Derek makes a chuffing sound of disbelief.

Stiles straightens up. “Fine. I’m not fine. Happy now.”

Derek can  _ smell  _ how not fine Stiles is. It’s coming off him in waves. He jumps up, puts his paws on Stiles’ good shoulder and gently knocks him to the ground. Then he sits on him.

“Ugh,” Stiles says. “Do you have any idea how muddy it is down here?”

Derek grins as if to say yes, he does know, thank you very much, and that’s why he’s sitting on Stiles instead of on the ground.

“Why?”

Derek wriggles his shoulders in a shrug.

Stiles flops into the mud. He’ll shower it all off later. Derek can do the laundry seeing as it’s his fault. 

“I’ve killed 133 people,” he says after a few minutes of Derek staring down at him. “133. And that’s not even including Donovan which I know was self defence, and all the people the Nogitsune killed which technically isn’t my fault but I still blame myself for.”

Derek whines softly and pushes his nose into Stiles’ palm.

Stiles sits up and runs his fingers through Derek’s surprisingly silky fur. “They were all bad guys,” he says. It’s easy to talk to Derek when he can’t talk back. “The 133, they were all bad guys. Every time I killed, it was justified. But I still killed them. I took their lives. The 16 at the prison, I don’t - all the others have been government sanctioned but the prison, that wasn’t. I’m a murderer. I’m literally a murderer.”

He feels sick, saying the words out loud. He’s thought them, of course, at least a hundred times since that morning. But saying them out loud, to someone else, someone who might be disappointed in him, who might reject him, who might leave him -

That terrifies him to the point that he thinks he might actually puke right here, right into Derek’s fur.

Derek whines again and curls himself up as small as he can.

Stiles sighs. “Sorry, buddy. Worth it. So fucking worth it.”

Derek looks up at him, hopefully.

“I’d do it again. In a heartbeat. Mostly I hate that I  _ had  _ to do it.”

Derek presses his nose into Stiles’ palm again, then licks his face.

“Ugh. No. No licking.”

Derek grins and sits back on his haunches.

Stiles ruffles the fur around Derek’s neck. “C’mon fuzzball, it’s cold and muddy, I’m not sitting here all afternoon. Race you back to the cabin.”

Derek chuffs a laugh and sets off.

They both know who’s going to win that race.

(Derek does.)

*

After that, Stiles is able to push some of the darker thoughts to the back of his mind. They’re still there, lurking unpleasantly, like they’re going to jump out and surprise him when he’s least expecting it. But they’re quiet. For now.

And he meant what he said. It  _ was  _ worth it. And he  _ would  _ do it again in a heartbeat.

No question.


	18. Chapter 18

That night, Derek has his first nightmare.

He’s running through a forest. Branches clutch at him, claw at him. One wraps around his ankle and sends him sprawling to the ground. He snarls and snaps at it but he can’t get free, it’s dragging him away, deep underground, he can’t breathe, he can’t see, he can’t breathe, he can’t breathe, he can’t -

He sits bolt upright, a scream ringing from his lips.

Stiles is instantly awake. “Hey,” he murmurs. “You’re ok. You’re safe.”

Derek scrambles away from him, fighting for control. His fangs are out. His claws are extended. His eyes glow bright blue. “Stay away from me,” he growls.

Stiles nods. He flicks on the lamp and jumps out of bed. Moments later, he’s back, crouching in front of Derek despite the warning to stay away. He holds out a small metal disk and presses it into Derek’s hand. The triskelion. “Alpha. Beta. Omega. C’mon, buddy, you got this.”

_ Alpha. Beta. Omega.  _ Derek focuses on the words, on what they mean to him, turning the disk over and over in his hand.

It helps.

Gradually, his breathing slows and he regains his control until he’s able to look down at Stiles, his eyes now back to their usual hazel-green.

“Fuck,” he says.

Stiles nods. “Yeah. Fuck. I’m gonna hug you now, Derek, ok?”

Derek wants to protest that he doesn’t need a hug, he’s fine now, he doesn’t need to be coddled like a child who’s had a bad dream. But he doesn’t. He just nods.

Barely a second later, Stiles has gathered him into a hug. His arms are warm and strong. One is wrapped around Derek’s back, the other cradles the back of Derek’s head. The touch is light. Gentle. Calming.

Derek relaxes into it. He isn’t trapped. He isn’t dying. He’s with Stiles. He’s safe.

The nightmares continue every night.

Stiles holds him every time.

*

They talk. They talk about what they’ve each been doing for the past six years. Stiles feels guilty when Derek tells him about how he searched for him. Derek feels guilty that he wasn’t there for Larry’s funeral and the aftermath; that he wasn’t there to help Stiles with his self appointed mission.

They catch up on everything. 

They laugh together.

They cook together. (Well, Derek cooks, Stiles watches and does the washing up afterwards.)

They eat together.

They sleep in the same bed.

They heal.

They still don’t  _ talk.  _


	19. Chapter 19

Eventually, they do.

They’ve been back here for almost a month now. Stiles has become increasingly more agitated. He paces often enough that Derek wants to growl at him to sit down or come for a run or  _ something,  _ just please stop doing  _ that.  _ He checks his work phone at least a hundred times a day. And his work laptop more often than that.

For Derek’s part, he’s doing much better. The nightmares have faded. He doesn’t feel the desperate urge to run all the time. Except on the full moon when he went out onto the mountain and ran and ran and ran.

He’s doing better apart from one thing.

Stiles.

Stiles and this unspoken thing between them.

Stiles who came for him.

Stiles who he would follow to the ends of the earth and beyond.

Stiles who is giving Derek much needed space to recover.

Stiles who is growing more fractious by the day and Derek doesn’t know why.

Stiles who is, apparently, not going to broach the subject which means that Derek is going to have to engage in his least favourite activity.

Talking.

“Stiles,” he says.

Stiles looks up from his laptop. “Yeah? What do you need?”

“We need to talk.”

“About?”

“Us. This.”

A little smirk plays across Stiles’ lips. “You know, personally I’m a fan of ignoring a problem until it eventually just goes away.”

Derek laughs and shakes his head. “I’m not going away so that’s not really a great plan, is it?”

“Nope. You sure you’re ready to talk about this?”

“No. But we need to.”

Stiles nods and closes the laptop. “Ok,” he says, leaning forwards with his elbows on his knees. “Let’s talk.”

Derek mirrors his pose from where he’s sitting on the edge of the bed. “Back in the bunker, you said you thought we had something back then and asked if you were wrong. I said you weren’t wrong.”

Stiles nods again. “Yeah, no, I remember that conversation.”

“Do you think we have something now?”

“Do you?”

“Yes.”

Stiles uncurls himself a little. “I think we do too.”

“It isn’t a conventional beginning to a relationship, is it?”

“Nope.”

“Is that what you want? A relationship?”

“Yup. Yeah. Yes, I do. If you you do, I don’t - maybe you don’t and that’s ok, we can, I don’t know -”

Derek smiles. “Stiles?”

“Yes?”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

Stiles doesn’t hesitate. He strides over to Derek, full of fire and intention, leans down and presses his lips to Derek’s.

Derek melts into the soft kiss, allows it to soothe some deep, dark, wounded part of his soul. He could stay like this forever but Stiles pulls away.

“Was that - was that ok?” he says.

Derek grabs him by the shirt and pulls him back. “Yes,” he growls and kisses Stiles again, more heated this time.

Stiles can’t suppress the deep groan that escapes him. He loses himself in the feel of Derek’s lips against his; in the taste of him; in the feel of  _ home  _ that surrounds him.

They end up on the bed. Stiles’ slender body fits against Derek’s more muscular one like they were made to be together.

Before long, clothes litter the floor.

They’re both oblivious to the rain hammering down outside.

*

Afterwards, they lie there in the semi-dark, listening to the rain, too blissed out to move from the bed.

Derek traces his fingers over the healed but still red and angry looking wound on Stiles’ shoulder. “Does it hurt?” he murmurs.

“Nope, all good,” Stiles says.

Derek dips his head to press a kiss to it. “You got that for me,” he says quietly. He still can’t quite wrap his head around that. Stiles came for him. Stiles got hurt for him.

Stiles turns and drops a kiss onto the top of Derek’s head. “Worth it.”

“Promise me you won’t do that again.”

“Do what?”

“Get hurt for me.”

“I can’t promise that.”

“Promise you’ll try.”

Stiles smiles. “I promise I’ll try not to get hurt for you again. But in return, you have to promise to try to not get into a situation where I have to kill people to get you back again. Because I will, you know I will, but I’d really prefer not to, so yeah, please promise me that.”

“I promise,” Derek whispers and kisses him for what must be the hundredth time in the last hour.

“It’s not the worst one.”

“Worst what?”

“Injury I’ve had.”

Derek nods and runs his fingers over a white, twisted scar, low on Stiles’ abdomen. “What was this one?”

“A knife. Dubai. Or, if you want to be accurate, in a helicopter somewhere over Dubai. Couldn’t use my gun so I had to go in with a knife, got stabbed in the process.”

Derek nods again, his heart aching. “And this one?” he asks, gently stroking his thumb across a puckered mark on Stiles’ thigh.

“Gunshot, Warsaw, three years ago.” Stiles shifts and turns his head, parts his hair so Derek can see the long scar on his scalp. “Bar fight in Texas, some dudes were harassing one of the waitresses. I told them not to. One of them hit me with a bottle. Fifteen stitches.”

“Cujo’s?”

“Uh yeah, I - I think so? How did -”

“The waitress remembered you.”

“Wh -”

Derek laughs softly. “I followed your trail. You didn’t disappear anywhere near as effectively as you thought you did. Not with Peter’s contacts, anyway. He knows people. But I was a long way behind you, I didn’t get to Lubbock until a year or so after you left. I asked around, found Shelly who had a lot to say about you.”

“You -” Stiles doesn’t bother finishing the sentence, he just turns and captures Derek’s lips in another kiss. “How far did you follow me?”

“All over. The trail ran cold in Arizona, six months after you left. It was like every trace of Stiles Stilinski was gone. You got to Phoenix, you weren’t there, but you never left either.”

“That’s where the CIA picked me up.”

Derek nods. “I kept looking, kept following every little lead. A sighting here and there, someone who looked a little like you. Providence. Roanoke. Nothing after that.”

Stiles gulps down a ball of emotions. “You were close,” he whispers. “Even with all the CIA cover stuff, you were close. I was in Providence and Roanoke before I came out here.”

“That was really you?”

“It was really me.”

Derek kisses him once again. “Any more scars I should know about?”

“Just this one,” Stiles says, tapping the centre of his chest.

“I don’t see anything.”

Stiles shakes his head. “It’s on the inside,” he whispers.

Derek smiles, drops his head and gently kisses the spot Stiles had pointed out. Then he kisses all of the others.

Then, for good measure, he kisses the rest of Stiles.

They spend the rest of the afternoon in bed, dozing in each other’s arms.

*

Stiles wakes up before Derek does. With the stealth of a cat, he slips out of bed, pulls on a pair of boxers, and picks up his work phone.

There are no messages. No missed calls.

Good.

He usually gets a month of down time after a long mission so he’s expecting a call any day now. A call he doesn’t want to take.

He quickly taps out a two word message and sends it to Irene, cc to Hurley.

_ I’m out.  _

That’s all he needs to say. 

There’ll be a debrief, of course, and he’ll have to hand back the weapons and car but that’s it. That chapter of his life is over.

Now it’s time to start the new one.

A new chapter that’s filled with hope.

Maybe there’s something more in his future than adding more kills to his ledger and ending up in the morgue too many years too soon. Maybe there’s something more in his future than having his identity burned once he’s no longer useful.

Maybe he  _ has  _ a future for the first time in so many years.

He’s no longer Mitch Rapp.

He’s Stiles Stilinski.

Again.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this chapter is officially the end of the fic, it feels like a nice place to leave them. However, there were some scenes that I originally planned to include so I've added them in snippet form as a bonus chapter. An epilogue of sorts. It covers the next few months and gives the fic a more complete and slightly fluffier ending, but this is the final "proper" chapter.


	20. Chapter 20

Derek buys a truck to replace Stiles’ car. It’s more practical for winters living on the side of a mountain. It’s big and silver. He buys a plaid shirt to go with it but he draws the line at a cowboy hat, no matter how many times Stiles tries to persuade him he’d look cute in one. There are limits.

*

Scott calls them to say that the hunters who were running the prison have been dealt with. He refuses to elaborate. Peter, however, is more than happy to fill in the details.

*

Two days later, Chris arrives, unannounced. He’s carrying a large case marked  _ Argent Arms International.  _ Stiles pounces on it with undisguised glee. He’s already been out and bought himself a Glock because he’s still only human and if he wants to protect Derek, he needs something that will fire bullets and he prefers a Glock. But Chris has brought him a small machine gun, a semi automatic rifle, another pistol, and a handful of knives that are well weighted for throwing.

He spends an hour trying them all out, then he carefully packs them away in his little closet-slash-armoury.

He hugs Chris.

They never mention it again.

*

Derek hurries to answer Stiles’ phone. “Sheriff,” he greets Stiles’ father.

“I think we’re a little past that,” Noah says. “You’re allowed to use my name.”

“Sorry. Noah. How are things?”

“All good. Just thought I’d call Stiles for a chat. He around?”

Derek glances over at the bed where Stiles is sprawled out, fast asleep with his mouth hanging open. He’s drooling slightly and it’s the most adorable thing Derek has ever seen.

“He’s sleeping,” he says into the phone.

Noah raises his eyebrows. “At 11.30 in the morning? Is he ok? Late night browsing Wikipedia?”

“Uh no, he crashed out around 10 last night.”

“He’s been asleep for 13 and a half hours?!”

“Dead to the world.”

Noah swallows hard. Stiles has never slept well, not since Claudia died. He’s always been on high alert and Noah thinks that probably got even worse in the time Stiles was away. Since Derek moved in with him, he seems to have settled. He sounds calmer when he calls.

And apparently he’s sleeping, too.

“Thanks,” he says. “Get him to give me a call later. No rush, just once he’s up and about.”

“I will,” Derek promises. 

He ends the call and slips back into bed beside Stiles.

Stiles doesn’t stir.

*

Peter and Cora visit. 

Cora hugs Stiles tightly and thanks him for saving Derek. Then she digs her claws into his throat and tells him that if he so much as thinks about hurting Derek, she’ll remove vital parts of his anatomy. She doesn’t specify which ones. Stiles tries not to think too hard about that. He won’t hurt Derek anyway.

Peter peers down his nose at the little cabin, as though it’s so far beneath him that he doesn’t even know what he’s looking at, but he makes no verbal complaints which Stiles takes as high praise coming from Peter.

“I do like you, Stiles,” he says when they leave.

“We don’t like you,” Derek says with a smile that belies his words.

“Nephew!” Peter exclaims, clutching his hand to his chest in mock outrage. “I’m offended, I’m truly offend-”

He cuts off with a squawk as Cora drags him out of the cabin.

*

Stiles and Derek go back to Beacon Hills on a frequent, if irregular basis. Sometimes it’s to help, because Scott called them, or there’s general pack business to do. Sometimes it’s just to visit.

The town feels more and more like home.

*

“Have you thought about moving back?” Derek asks when they get back from a visit.

An ordinary, seeing friends and family visit, nothing stressful, but Stiles has been grouchy the whole drive back to Montana.

“Uh...have you?”

“Yes.”

“Do you - do you want to?”

“Do you?”

“I don’t - I mean, I miss my dad, and it would be easier…”

Derek smiles and kisses his forehead. “I’ll call Peter, ask him to get the loft set up for us. We can move back whenever you’re ready.”

Stiles grins and throws himself at Derek who catches him easily. He wraps his legs around Derek’s waist and kisses him. “Have I told you that I love you?”

“No,” Derek says quietly. “I know you do but you’ve never said it.”

“Hmm,” Stiles says. “I should rectify that. Immediately.”

“You don’t -” Derek starts but he’s interrupted.

“I love you. A lot. Like, seriously, a lot. I love you. So fucking much. I lo-”

“Stiles.”

“Derek.”

“I love you too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So here we are. The end of the fic. Thank you all for joining me on this journey. I had so much fun writing this, and just as much fun posting it. Thanks for all the kudos and comments. You guys rock!
> 
> Next up is a Deputy!Derek AU which is almost finished (but please be patient, Real Life is kicking my arse at the moment so it might be a little while before it's ready to post). I have so many fics planned. So. Many. Including a return to this 'verse too because I just love Assassin!Stiles.
> 
> Watch this space!


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